**The Little Box with a Ring**
Emma and James had been friends since primary school. They lived in the same block of flats, just a few doors apart, and shared every class. For the first two years, James’s gran would always meet them after school. Emma’s mum worked shifts, and her dad was often away on business trips.
“Emma, love, come round for tea. I’ll make you something proper,” James’s gran would say every time.
As they neared the house, Emma would feel that flutter of hope—would Gran remember to invite her today? She loved the hearty beef stew, the shepherd’s pie, or pasta bakes Gran made.
“You’ve barely touched your food again! Who do I cook for? It’s not like you’re starved at home,” her mum would scold later, opening the fridge to untouched leftovers.
Emma would sigh and say eating alone was boring, that Gran had invited her, and she couldn’t refuse. But in Year Three, their timetable flipped to afternoon lessons. Gran stopped asking—Emma’s mum was home by then. Soon, she stopped meeting them altogether.
“Seriously? I’m not a baby. Nobody else gets picked up, just me. It’s embarrassing,” James grumbled when Emma asked why Gran didn’t come anymore.
Emma noticed James didn’t wait for her at the coat hooks now, rushing off before she’d buttoned her coat. Or he’d walk ahead with the lads, ignoring her trailing behind.
At school, he kept his distance—all because the boys teased them about being “girlfriend and boyfriend.” Emma sulked. When he asked to copy her homework, she refused, chin held high.
By secondary school, most of their classmates were dating. James stopped avoiding Emma. They walked home together again. He’d drop by to borrow notes or work on assignments.
One day, Emma came home to find her mum in tears.
“Did something happen to Dad?” she panicked.
“Something happened, alright. He’s left us. For someone else. I hope he rots.”
After that, her mum shut down—crying or staring blankly. Home became unbearable. Emma dreaded going back. Meanwhile, James’s gran fell ill, forgetting even to eat. He had to watch her after school, making sure she didn’t wander off or leave the gas on. They only saw each other in class.
Before A-levels, everyone debated university plans. Emma knew money was tight—no chance of a scholarship—so she enrolled in college. James got into uni.
They rarely met now, only bumping into each other in town. At first, they’d exchange a few words. Then just a nod. Once, Emma saw James with a girl. He pretended not to notice her.
It stung. She fumed, jealous. Did she fancy him? Love or just friendship—she’d never thought about it. But seeing him with someone else twisted her stomach.
In her final year, a new lecturer joined the college—fresh out of teacher training. Shy, he barely looked at the girls. His thick black-framed glasses hid his face.
One rainy spring evening, Emma stood under the college porch, cursing herself for forgetting her umbrella.
Mr. Thompson stepped out, pulling one from his briefcase.
“Emma, how far do you live?” he asked.
“Four stops on the bus.”
“I’ve got my car. I can drop you.”
“Oh no, Mr. Thompson. It’ll clear up soon,” she said.
“Doubt it. Come on.” He held the umbrella over her, leading her to his silver Ford.
As he drove, he took off his glasses.
“You drive without them?” Emma frowned.
He smirked. “Plain glass. Wearing them makes me look the part. But that’s our secret, yeah?” His grin was boyish.
“Sure.”
*He’s not bad-looking without them*, she thought.
“Enjoying college? Planning to go uni, or straight to work?” he asked, suddenly informal.
Emma matched his tone. He was only a few years older, after all.
At her door, he walked her under the umbrella though the rain had nearly stopped.
He gave her lifts after that—she suspected he waited on purpose. They went to the cinema, shared ice cream at the café. She always called him “Mr. Thompson” in class. In his suit and glasses, he seemed mature. The attention flattered her; her friends were jealous.
One Sunday, he visited with flowers and chocolates. Over tea, her mum quizzed him—where he’d studied, why he’d become a teacher. Emma stayed quiet, eyes down.
“Emma’s job-hunting,” her mum said, nudging her into the conversation.
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Mr. Thompson said. “We’ll have a teaching vacancy next term. I’d like to suggest Emma. She’s bright—good chance she’d stay on.”
“Really? Emma, did you hear?” her mum beamed.
“I don’t want to teach. It’s not for me. Sorry, Mr. Thompson.” She met his gaze squarely.
He flushed, reaching to adjust glasses he wasn’t wearing. “Actually… Mrs. Harris, I came to ask for Emma’s hand.”
Her mum gaped, then turned to Emma.
“I know it’s sudden. You both need time. I’ve got a car—old, but I’ll upgrade. A flat. She’ll want for nothing,” he rushed, mostly to her mum.
“This is… Emma, say something! You’ve shocked her, Mr. Thompson. She needs to think…”
*At least a little ring box would’ve been nice*, Emma almost said. *Hopeless. Who proposes over tea?* She’d dreamed of romance, not this.
Both waited, expectant.
“I… need time. Sorry.”
“Lovely meeting you, Mr. Thompson,” her mum hinted.
“I should go.” He reached for invisible glasses, flustered. Still, he lingered, hoping.
Emma stayed silent.
Her mum ushered him out. “Do you even like him?” she asked later.
Emma shrugged.
“Well, he’s got a car, a flat. Maybe you should say yes. Your choice.”
*Choice?* Emma wouldn’t marry a man who couldn’t even propose properly.
“Oh, I saw James’s mum. Bragging he’s transferring to London for his degree.”
“You didn’t tell me? When’s he leaving?” Emma’s pulse spiked.
“When was I meant to? Your *fiancé* turned up and I forgot! He’s already gone.”
When Mr. Thompson returned a week later—same flowers, same chocolates, no ring—Emma said yes.
Her mum sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Love fades, but a flat and car stay.”
After a dull wedding came a duller marriage. Evenings, he prepped lessons. No romance, no chats about the future. Nights together changed nothing. Emma realised she’d never love him. They lived side by side, never entwined.
One day, visiting her mum, she found her dad there. Her mum blushed like a schoolgirl, eyes bright.
“We’re trying again. He missed me. It didn’t work out… over there,” her mum whispered when he stepped outside.
“I’m happy for you,” Emma said.
Walking home, she nearly cried. *They* had love. *They* were happy. And her? The thought of seeing her husband made her hollow.
They’d been married almost two years but were strangers. *Leave? But where?*
That evening, she cooked, then spoke. “We should end this. I can’t pretend anymore. I don’t love you.”
He looked up. Now he wore glasses full-time. Peering over them, he frowned like she’d got an answer wrong.
“And when do you—”
“Now.” She stood, packing her case with odd relief.
“I’ll drive you,” he said, straightening his tie.
“No. I’ve called a cab. Just help with my bags.”
Her mum gasped at the doorstep. “You left him?”
“Yeah. Can I stay a bit? I won’t be in the way.”
“Of course.” Her dad carried her case to her old room—unchanged.
“About time. You were frozen stiff with him. You’ll thaw. Plenty more fish,” he said.
“Thanks, Dad.” She hugged him, sniffling.
That night, sleepless, she wondered—*ending or beginning?*
Summer arrived abruptly. Or maybe Emma just noticed it now. She hadn’t felt this light in years. The divorce was quick.
He replaced her with a student. Emma turned down every new advance.
Walking home, she basked in the warmth. The weight was gone.
“Emma! Hey!” a voice called. “Where’s the fire?”
It took a second. *James.*
“James!” She flung her arms around him, then pulled back, embarrassed. “You back for good?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Divorced for good,” she said, and they laughed. “I’m glad you’re here.”
But they barely metYears later, as Emma watched their children play in the garden, she realized that true love isn’t found in grand gestures but in the quiet moments you build together.
