The Blue Vein
Oh, how Edward adored her. He was besotted, lingering beneath her window on late evenings, his heart leaping if he caught even a shadow of her silhouette. She seemed untouchable, a distant vision. He loved her fragility—the pale, delicate skin through which faint blue veins traced like threads. It left him breathless with tenderness.
At the school Christmas ball, Edward asked her to dance. Katherine was shorter than him, making it awkward. His hands trembled, his forehead damp with sweat, his palms burning where they rested on her waist. He fought to steady himself, mortified that she could feel his nervousness. When the music faded, he stepped back, finally able to breathe again.
It puzzled him why other lads weren’t just as smitten.
Take Thomas, for instance—he fancied sturdy Eleanor, with her long, athletic legs. During gym class, when she sprinted laps around the field, towering over the other girls, her high ponytail swung like a pendulum.
But to Edward, Katherine was the very picture of beauty. She haunted his thoughts, an obsession, a quiet affliction. His mother didn’t share his infatuation. “Pretty, but so frail,” she muttered to his father. “We ought to steer him away from that girl. She’s not right for him—too delicate, too strange. What sort of wife would she make? And that name—foreign-sounding, not proper. Convince him to study in another city—Manchester, perhaps. Just to get her out of his head.”
His father agreed. Over a stern talk, he laid out the appeal of a Manchester education—better prospects, prestige. They’d even cover the tuition if he missed a scholarship. Reluctantly, Edward agreed.
In his dormitory, he pinned up a photograph of Katherine, enlarged from a class portrait. But she remained at home, and Edward was young. He gained experience, dated other girls, yet her image lingered in his dreams.
Then he met Olivia. With her, his hands didn’t shake. His mind stayed clear. They understood each other without words—comfortable, steady. Katherine faded into memory.
After graduation, he married Olivia and settled in Manchester. His mother was relieved. “Far better than that odd Katherine.”
A year later, their daughter Lily was born. Edward doted on her, ready to summon half the doctors in Manchester at the slightest sniffle. Katherine was just a tender schoolboy dream.
Then his father fell ill.
“He’s being operated on. Come home,” his mother urged over the phone.
Lily had a cold, so Olivia stayed behind. Edward took unpaid leave and traveled alone.
Manchester saw him off with a dreary drizzle, but his hometown welcomed him with golden leaves and crisp autumn sun. His father put on a brave face.
The surgery went well. His mother kept vigil at the hospital, leaving Edward to wander. The danger had passed—he could return to his girls soon.
Walking home from the hospital, he savoured the crunch of leaves underfoot, the cool air sharp with the scent of autumn. Ahead, a young woman paused, bending over a pram to adjust something. His heart recognised her before he did.
“Hello,” he said as he approached.
Katherine straightened, smiled. He took in the familiar narrow face, the translucent skin still betraying those delicate veins, the same distant sadness in her eyes.
“Visiting your parents?” she asked.
“Father was in hospital. He’s recovering.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Worry flickered in her gaze.
“All’s well now. And you?” He nodded at the pram.
“Mine,” she said, and in her tone, he sensed she was alone.
A pang of pity struck him—he wanted to cradle her face and kiss her right there. He walked her home, asked after old classmates, spoke of himself without waiting for questions. He helped carry the pram upstairs. She still lived in the same flat; her parents had retired to the countryside.
“Drop by sometime,” she offered at the door.
He almost said yes. But she was still untouchable.
The next morning, he returned to the hospital. His father looked better, even joked. His mother stayed; Edward bought roses and went to Katherine’s. She wasn’t surprised, only hushed him—the baby was asleep.
“Hungry? Tea?” she asked in the cramped kitchen, arranging the flowers.
“No. Mum’s fed me enough.”
Being near her again sent his pulse racing. When she set the vase down, her face was inches away. He noticed the blue vein fluttering at her temple.
He couldn’t resist—he kissed it. For a second, she froze. Then she turned, slender arms twining around his neck, pressing close as a sapling to an oak. He lifted her onto the table—
A cry from the bedroom. Katherine pushed him away, rushed to her daughter. Shaking off the spell, Edward exhaled sharply and left. She stood in the hall, the child in her arms.
“I should go,” he rasped.
She nodded. As he opened the door, her quiet voice reached him: “She sleeps soundly after ten.”
He turned. Desperation and hope warred in her eyes.
Walking away, he untangled his feelings. Years ago, this would’ve thrilled him. Now, it threatened everything. He cursed his impulsiveness. If not for the child, she’d have let him—far from untouchable. Or was it only him she’d kept at bay? He thought of Olivia—steady, solid.
At home, he showered, drank coffee, resolved to stay away. But then he remembered that vein, her gaze—and wavered.
His mother returned, tired. “Your father’s eating well. He’ll live. Go back to your family.”
Just like that, his choice was made. He left that night, stopped by the hospital to say goodbye. His father frowned. “You’re leaving already?”
“Work. And Lily’s still poorly.”
“You shouldn’t have left them. Your mother overreacted.”
On the train, Edward imagined Katherine waiting by the window, listening for his knock.
*This isn’t betrayal*, he told himself. *That wasn’t me—it was the boy who trembled at her veins, her scent. I love Olivia. I love Lily.*
By dawn, he was home. Olivia, making breakfast, gasped in delight. Lily woke, shouting, “Daddy!” He hugged her, breathing in that sweet child-smell.
*This is my life. Simple. Clear.*
At Christmas, they visited his parents. Walking through town, they saw Katherine pushing her pram, her daughter’s cheeks rosy with cold. Edward lagged behind, wished her a happy New Year, then hurried to rejoin his girls.
Now, he couldn’t fathom why he’d ached for her so. Regret gnawed at him for that autumn lapse—but relief, too, that he’d stayed true.
Katherine remained—a bright, bittersweet ghost of first love, never to be revisited.
