The Ring Box
Lily and Oliver had been friends since primary school. They lived in the same block of flats, just different stairwells, and shared all their classes. For the first two years, Oliver’s nan would meet them after school. Lily’s mum worked shifts, and her dad was often away on business trips.
“Lily love, come round ours, I’ve made lunch,” Oliver’s nan would offer every time.
Walking home, Lily would hold her breath, hoping she’d be invited. She adored the rich beef stew, the shepherd’s pie, or the bangers and mash.
“Did you not eat again? Who do I cook for? As if they don’t feed you at home,” her mum would scold, opening the fridge in the evening.
Lily would mumble that eating alone was boring, that Oliver’s nan had insisted—how could she say no? But when they started afternoon classes in Year 3, the lunches stopped. Mum was home by then. Soon, the nan didn’t even fetch Oliver anymore.
“Course not. Think I’m a kid? Nobody gets picked up—just me. It’s embarrassing,” Oliver snapped when Lily asked why.
She noticed he stopped waiting for her by the coat rack, darting off before she could button her coat. Or he’d walk ahead with the lads, ignoring Lily trailing behind.
At school, he avoided her. The boys teased them about being “husband and wife.” Lily sulked. When he begged to copy her homework, she refused, chin tilted high.
By secondary, most lads started dating. Oliver stopped acting shy around her. They walked home together again. He’d pop round to borrow her notes or cram for exams.
One day, Lily came home to find her mum sobbing.
“Is Dad alright?” she panicked.
“Gone. Left us. For some tart. Hope he rots.”
After that, Mum shut down—crying or staring blankly. Home was unbearable. Lily dreaded going back. Then Oliver’s nan got poorly—forgetting meals, even her own name. He had to watch her till his parents got home, making sure she didn’t wander off or leave the gas on. They only saw each other in class.
Before A-levels, everyone talked about uni. Lily knew they couldn’t afford it—no way she’d get a full ride—so she enrolled in college. Oliver got into university.
Now they barely met, just passing nods on the high street. At first, they’d chat. Then just “hello.” Sometimes Lily spotted Oliver with a girl. He’d pretend not to see her.
It stung. Did she fancy him? Was it love or just habit? She’d never thought about it. But seeing him with someone else? It twisted her gut.
In her final year, a new teacher arrived—fresh out of teacher training. He blushed whenever the girls looked at him, hid behind thick black-framed glasses.
One rainy spring afternoon, Lily got caught without an umbrella. She huddled under the college porch eaves.
Mr. Thompson—Callum, really, though no one called him that—stepped out, unclipping his brolly.
“Lily, far to walk?”
“Four stops on the bus.”
“I’ve got my car. Fancy a lift?”
“Oh no, Mr. Thompson. It’ll clear up.”
“Doubt it. Come on.” He held the umbrella over her, guiding her to a silver Vauxhall.
He took off the glasses to drive.
“You don’t need them?” Lily side-eyed him.
He smirked. “Plain glass. Makes me look the part.” Then, conspiratorially: “Our secret, yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Not bad without the specs,” she thought.
“Enjoying college? Fancy uni, or straight to work?” he asked, suddenly dropping the “sir.”
Lily matched his casual tone. Why not? He was barely older.
At her flat, he walked her to the door under the brolly, though the rain had nearly stopped.
He gave her lifts after that. She realised he waited for her purposely. They even went to the cinema, shared sundaes at the café. She still called him “sir” in class—the glasses and suit lent authority. It flattered her, a teacher courting her. The girls were jealous.
One Sunday, he turned up with flowers and chocolates. Over tea, Mum quizzed him—his degree, why teaching. Lily stared at her lap.
“Lily’s job-hunting,” Mum said, dragging her into it.
“That’s why I’m here,” Callum said. “There’s a teaching spot opening. I’d like to put her forward.”
“Lily, d’you hear that?” Mum glowed.
“I don’t want to teach. Not my thing. Sorry, Mr. Thompson.” She met his eyes.
He flushed, reaching to adjust glasses he wasn’t wearing.
“I actually came to…” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hart, I’d like your permission to marry Lily.”
Mum gaped at him, then Lily.
“I know it’s sudden. No rush. I’ve a car—old, but upgrading soon. A flat. She’ll want for nothing.” He spoke mostly to Mum.
“You’ve shocked her! Lily, say something!”
“A ring box would’ve been nice,” Lily almost said. Clumsy oaf. No romance—just tea and small talk.
Both stared, waiting.
“I… need time. Sorry.”
Mum hinted he should leave.
Back in the kitchen:
“You actually like him?”
Lily shrugged.
“Well, he’s got a flat, a car… Maybe say yes.”
No thought needed. She wouldn’t marry him, especially not a bumbler who botched proposals.
“Oh, saw Oliver’s mum. Bragging he’s transferring to London.”
“You waited till now? When’s he leaving?”
“Already gone.”
When Callum returned a week later—same flowers, same chocolates—Lily said yes. Still no ring box.
“Maybe you’re right. Love fades; flats don’t,” Mum sighed.
The wedding was dull. Marriage duller. Even nights together? Mechanical. Lily realised she’d never love him. They lived side by side, never touching—like train tracks.
Once, visiting Mum, she found Dad there. Mum blushed like a schoolgirl.
“We’re trying again. He missed me. It didn’t work out… with her.”
“I’m happy for you,” Lily said.
Walking home, she nearly cried. They loved each other. Were happy. And her? The thought of Callum made her sick. Predictable as clockwork.
Two years in, no closer. Leave? But where? Not back to Mum and Dad’s new start.
That night, cooking dinner, she watched him eat—elbows in, scared of stains. HATE boiled up. Is this her whole life?
“I want out. I don’t love you.”
He blinked through his glasses—now real, his eyesight had worsened.
“When—”
“Now.” She packed, almost giddy.
“I’ll drive you.”
“Taxi’s coming. Just help with the bags.”
Mum gasped at the suitcase.
“You left him?”
“Can I stay? Just a bit?”
Dad carried her things to her old room.
“About time. You were like a frozen fish with him. First pancake’s always lumpy.”
She cried into his shoulder.
That night, listening to them whisper about her, she wondered—end or beginning?
Summer came abruptly. Or maybe she just noticed it now. The divorce was quick. He replaced her with a student. Lily turned down every man who looked her way.
One day, walking sunward, she felt weightless.
“Lil! Hey!”
Oliver. She hugged him, then stepped back, flustered.
“Back for good?”
“Back for good. You?”
“Divorced for good.” They laughed.
But they barely met—both working. Weekends were for films, pub trips with mates. Summer and autumn vanished. No proposal came.
“New Year plans? With Oliver?” Mum asked.
“Doubt it.”
“Your dad and I are skiing. Fancy it?”
“Nah. Might just sleep.”
Thirty-first morning, her parents left. Lily decorated the tree, cooked turkey, did her hair and nails. Even slipped into heels.
She didn’t know why she expected him. She nearly called—no, that’d seem desperate. He didn’t ring either.
Midnight neared. The fizz went straight to her head. Then the doorbell.
“Father Christmas?” she giggled, stumbling barefoot.
Oliver stood there—flowers, champagne.
“Nice dress. Alone?”
“Mum called you?”
“Can we miss midnight out here?” He saw the set table, candles.
“You.”
“Lil, I’ve always—”
“Shh. The PM’s speech.”
“Sod that. I never told you—”
“Quick, pour!”
As Big Ben chimed, they kissed, ignoring the world.
“And as the last firework burst above them, scattering gold across the sky, she realised some stories weren’t meant to end—just pause, like a held breath, before beginning again.
