The Blue Vein
Oh, how Oliver adored her. He’d lose his head over her, lingering under her window late into the evening, thrilled if he caught even a glimpse of her silhouette. To him, she seemed untouchable, almost otherworldly. He was smitten by her delicacy—the pale, thin skin through which faint blue veins traced like delicate threads. Just the thought of her left him breathless with tenderness.
At the school Christmas dance, Oliver finally gathered the courage to ask her for a waltz. Charlotte was much shorter than him, making dancing awkward. His hands trembled, his forehead clammy with sweat, and his palms against her waist burned with nervous heat. He could barely contain himself, mortified she could feel his shaky excitement. When the music faded, he stepped back, finally able to breathe.
It baffled him why the other lads weren’t just as besotted with her.
Take James, for instance—he fancied tall, athletic Emily, with her strong legs and commanding stride. During P.E., she’d lap the track, towering over the other girls, her high ponytail swaying like a pendulum.
But for Oliver, Charlotte was the very image of feminine grace—slender, ethereal, haunting his every thought. His mother, however, didn’t share his admiration. “Pretty, but so fragile,” she confided to his father. “He needs to snap out of it—that girl isn’t right for him. Hardly the dependable sort, is she? And that name—Charlotte—sounds like something out of a novel. Maybe if he went off to study in London? Somewhere far away from her.”
His father agreed, pulling Oliver aside for a bloke-to-bloke chat. London, he argued, was the place for opportunity—better universities, brighter prospects. They’d even foot the bill if needed. And so, Oliver left.
In his dorm, he pinned up a blurry photo of Charlotte, cropped from a class picture. But she stayed behind, and well… youth is fleeting. He gained experience, dated other girls, though the memory of delicate Charlotte lingered in his dreams.
Then he met Eleanor. With her, his hands didn’t shake, his mind stayed clear. They just *clicked*. Comfortable, dependable. And slowly, Charlotte faded into the background.
After graduation, Oliver married Eleanor and settled in London. His mother was over the moon. “So much better than that odd Charlotte,” she’d say.
A year later, their daughter Sophie was born. Oliver adored her—panicking at every sneeze, ready to summon every doctor in London at the slightest cough. Charlotte, meanwhile, became just a wistful schoolboy fantasy.
Then one day, his mother called. “Your father’s in hospital—surgery tomorrow. You should come.”
Sophie had a cold, so Eleanor stayed behind. Oliver booked leave and went alone.
London saw him off with miserable drizzle, but his hometown welcomed him with golden autumn leaves and crisp sunshine. His father, ever the stoic, joked through his nerves.
The operation went smoothly. With his mother keeping vigil, Oliver found himself with time to kill. The danger had passed—no need to linger. He should’ve gone home to his girls.
Instead, he walked. Fear long gone, he savoured the crunch of leaves underfoot, the earthy scent of autumn.
Up ahead, a young woman paused, adjusting something in a pram. His heart leapt before his mind caught up.
“Hello,” he said as he approached.
Charlotte straightened, recognising him with a quiet smile. Oliver took in that same delicate face, the thin skin where blue veins still traced delicate paths, the same distant, melancholy gaze.
“Visiting your parents?” she asked.
“My father—he’s had surgery. All fine now.”
Her eyes flickered with concern. “Nothing too serious?”
“All sorted. And you? Yours?” He nodded at the pram.
“Mine,” she said simply. The way she said it, he knew she wasn’t married.
A pang of pity struck him—so fierce he nearly cupped her face and kissed her right there in the street. He walked her home, asking after old classmates, rambling about himself without prompting. Helped carry the pram upstairs—she still lived in the same flat. Her parents had retired to the countryside.
“Drop by sometime,” she said as he left.
Oliver considered walking right back up then and there—but didn’t. Just like before, she felt out of reach.
The next morning, he visited his father, who was already cracking jokes. His mother shooed him off—”Go home to your family.”
Yet Oliver bought roses and went to Charlotte’s. She didn’t seem surprised, only hushed him—”The baby’s sleeping.”
“Hungry? Fancy some tea?” she offered in the cramped kitchen, arranging the flowers.
“Not a thing. Mum’s been force-feeding me.”
Being this close to her again set his pulse racing. Just like old times—that same breathless tenderness. When she turned, her face inches from his, he spotted that faint blue vein at her temple.
He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her.
For a heartbeat, she froze—then wound her arms around his neck, clinging like a twig to an oak. He lifted her easily onto the table—
A cry from the bedroom broke the spell. Charlotte pushed him away, scrambled down, and hurried off. Oliver shook his head, forcing sanity back.
“I should go,” he muttered hoarsely.
She nodded, reappearing with her daughter in her arms.
As he opened the door, her voice stopped him: “She’s asleep by ten. Come back after?”
He turned sharply—was he imagining things? Her eyes held quiet desperation.
Walking away, Oliver wrestled with himself. Years ago, he’d have soared at those words. Now, he knew life wouldn’t stay the same if he returned. Why had he been so reckless? If not for the baby, she’d have let him—right there on the kitchen table. All those years she’d seemed unattainable—or was that just for him?
Then he thought of Eleanor. Easy, safe.
Back home, a shower and coffee cleared his head. He wouldn’t go. What would he even tell his mother?
But doubt crept in—one memory of that blue vein, her hopeful gaze, and resolve wavered.
His tired mother returned, full of news—his father was eating, recovering well.
“Stay longer if you like,” she said.
But Oliver left that night, after a quick hospital goodbye. His father chided him—”Why’d you leave your girls alone? Your mother overreacts.”
On the train, Oliver imagined Charlotte putting her daughter to bed, waiting by the window, watching for him in the dark.
*This isn’t betrayal*, he told himself. *That wasn’t me in the kitchen—just the ghost of a lovesick boy obsessed with veins and fragility. I love Eleanor. I love Sophie.*
By dawn, he was home. Eleanor, making porridge for Sophie, lit up at the sight of him. His daughter squealed—”Daddy!”—launching into his arms.
*This is my home. My family. Where I’m wanted.*
Over Christmas, they visited his parents. Out walking, they passed Charlotte, her daughter’s cheeks rosy in the frosty pram. Oliver hung back just long enough to wish her a Happy New Year—then caught up with his girls.
Now, he couldn’t fathom why he’d ever been so lovesick over her. Regret gnawed at him for that autumn slip—but mostly, relief. He hadn’t betrayed them.
Charlotte would stay—a sweet, aching memory of first love, never to be revisited.
