**The Blue Vein**
How Nicholas adored her. He’d lose his mind over her, standing beneath her window late into the evening, his heart leaping if he caught even a glimpse of her silhouette. She seemed untouchable. He melted at her fragility—the pale, delicate skin where faint blue veins traced like delicate threads beneath the surface. It made him ache with tenderness.
At the school Christmas ball, he finally asked her to dance. Emily was so much shorter than him, awkward to hold, and his hands trembled as they rested on her waist. A clammy sweat prickled his forehead, and he burned with shame, knowing she could feel how nervous he was. When the music stopped, he stepped back, finally able to breathe again.
He couldn’t fathom why none of the other lads fancied her.
Take Thomas, for example—he liked sturdy Charlotte, with her long, athletic legs. When Charlotte ran laps during PE, towering over the other girls, her high ponytail swung like a pendulum. But for Nicholas, the epitome of beauty was delicate Emily. She was his obsession, his fixation, his sickness.
His mother didn’t share his fascination. “Pretty, yes, but so frail,” she whispered to his father. “He needs to move on. She’s not right for him—too ethereal, too insubstantial. What sort of wife would she make? And her name—Emily—so unlike our own. Convince him to study elsewhere, maybe London. Get him away from her.”
His father agreed and spoke to him, man to man—London offered more opportunities, a prestigious university, a brighter future. They’d even cover tuition if he didn’t get a scholarship. And Nicholas, reluctantly, said yes.
In his dorm, he pinned up an enlarged photo of Emily from their class picture. But she stayed behind, and he was young. He gained experience, dated other girls, yet kept Emily’s memory tucked away in his mind and his dreams.
Then he met Amelia. No trembling, no dizziness when he touched her. She was easy, steady. They understood each other without words. And slowly, Emily’s image faded into the recesses of his memory.
After graduation, Nicholas married Amelia and settled in London. His mother was thrilled. “Far better than that strange Emily.”
A year later, their daughter Sophie was born. Nicholas adored her—one sneeze, and he’d have the entire London medical service at their door. Emily became just a nostalgic dream from his school days.
Then his mother called. “Your father’s been hospitalized. Surgery. Come at once.”
Sophie had a cold, so Amelia stayed behind. Nicholas took unpaid leave and went alone.
London saw him off with drizzle; his hometown welcomed him with golden leaves and crisp autumn air. His father bravely dismissed any worry—the surgery went smoothly. With his mother at the hospital, Nicholas wandered, savouring the freedom. The fear had passed; soon he’d return to his girls.
On his way home from the hospital, a woman stopped ahead of him, adjusting a pram. His heart lurched before his mind caught up.
“Hello,” he said, approaching.
Emily straightened, recognition flickering. He studied her familiar narrow face, the translucent skin, those same distant, melancholy eyes.
“Visiting your parents?” she asked.
“Father had surgery. He’s alright now.”
Her eyes darkened with concern. “Is it serious?”
“All fine. And you?” He nodded at the pram.
“Mine.” The way she said it told him she wasn’t married.
A pang of pity struck him—he wanted to cradle her face and kiss her right there in the street. He walked her home, asking about classmates, volunteering his own life unprompted. Helped carry the pram upstairs. Her parents had left her the flat and retired to their countryside cottage.
“Come by sometime,” she said as she left.
For a wild second, he considered following her up—but no, she was still untouchable. He couldn’t just invite himself in.
The next morning, he visited his father again—he looked stronger, joking now. His mother stayed, and Nicholas bought roses and went to Emily’s. She wasn’t surprised, just hushed him—the baby was sleeping.
“Hungry? Tea?” she offered in the cramped kitchen.
“No, Mum’s been feeding me nonstop.”
Her nearness unnerved him. That old tenderness returned. As she arranged the flowers, her face came close—and he saw it. The faint blue vein pulsing at her temple.
He couldn’t resist. He kissed her. She froze, then turned into him, her thin arms winding around his neck like a reed clinging to a strong oak. He lifted her onto the table—
A cry from the nursery. Emily shoved him away, leapt down, and fled.
Nicholas exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Stepped out of the kitchen. Emily stood cradling her daughter, the child’s tears glistening.
“I should go,” he rasped.
She nodded, saw him out. As he opened the door, her quiet voice stopped him:
“She sleeps soundly after ten. Come back then.”
He spun around. Her eyes held desperation and hope.
Walking away, he wrestled with himself. Years ago, he’d have rejoiced. Now, he knew—if he went back, nothing would be the same. And why? He cursed his impulsiveness. If not for the baby, she’d have let him have her right there. Had she always been this way—or only for him?
He showered, drank coffee, clarity returning. He wouldn’t go. What would he even tell his mother? But then—the vein. That look.
His exhausted mother returned. “Your father’s eating well. He’ll recover. You should go home—your family needs you.”
Decision made. He left that night. Said goodbye to his father, who chided him, “Why’d you leave them alone? Your mother overreacted.”
On the train, Nicholas imagined Emily by the window, waiting.
*This isn’t betrayal,* he told himself. *That wasn’t me in the kitchen—just the boy who once swooned over a blue vein. I love Amelia and Sophie.*
By dawn, he was home. Amelia, making breakfast, lit up at the sight of him. Sophie woke, squealing, “Daddy!” He hugged her, breathing in that sweet child-scent.
*This is my life. Simple. Clear.*
At Christmas, they visited his parents. Walking through town, they passed Emily—her daughter fast asleep in the pram, cheeks pink with cold. Nicholas lingered just long enough to wish her a happy New Year before catching up to his girls.
Now, he couldn’t fathom why he’d once been so mad for her. Regret gnawed at him—for his recklessness that autumn, but also relief. He hadn’t betrayed them.
Emily would stay in his memory: a bittersweet first love, never to be relived.
