**The Bouquet**
Vera lay on her bed with her eyes closed. On the opposite bed by the far wall, Olive sat cross-legged, reading aloud from her textbook. Vera’s phone suddenly blared with a popular ringtone. Olive snapped the book shut and shot her friend a disapproving look.
Reluctantly, Vera answered. A moment later, she was sitting up, then tossing the phone aside, leaping to her feet, and darting around the cramped room, stuffing clothes from the wardrobe into a duffel bag.
“Where are you going? What’s happened?” Olive asked, alarmed.
“The neighbour called—Mum’s had a heart attack. They’ve taken her to hospital,” Vera muttered, yanking the zip shut before heading to the door, where their coats hung and boots stood waiting.
“You’ve got an exam tomorrow! She’s in hospital—she’ll be looked after. Sit it, then go after,” Olive urged, watching Vera pull on her boots.
“Olive, explain everything to the faculty. I’ll sort it when I get back. I’ll resit the exam during the break. The bus leaves in forty minutes.” Vera was already fastening her coat.
“Call me when you know more about your mum,” Olive called, but Vera was already out the door. The sharp click of heels faded down the corridor.
Olive shrugged and turned back into the room. Then she spotted Vera’s phone charger still plugged in. She snatched it up, sprinted barefoot into the hallway after her.
“Vera! Vera, wait!” she shouted, flying down the stairs.
The front door slammed below. Olive leapt the last few steps, shoved the door open, and nearly tumbled onto the pavement after her.
“Vera!”
The girl turned, saw the cable in Olive’s hand, and hurried back.
“Ta.” Then she was off again.
“Olive Smith! What’s all this racket? One of you nearly breaks the door, the other’s out here barefoot in December—have you lost your minds?” The porter, Mrs. Wilkins, stood up from her desk, glowering.
“Sorry, Mrs. Wilkins. We don’t smoke—Vera’s mum’s been rushed to hospital. It’s freezing—can I go?” Olive shifted uncomfortably, grit digging into her bare feet from the icy path.
“Oh, Lord!” Mrs. Wilkins sank heavily into her chair, crossing herself. “God preserve us!”
Olive trudged back upstairs, brushed the grit from her feet, tidied Vera’s scattered things, slipped on slippers, and took the kettle to the kitchen. The exam loomed—tea would warm her before she buried herself in revision again.
Darkness had fallen when a tentative knock came at the door.
“Who’s there?” Olive called. No answer.
She sighed, rose, and opened the door.
“Alright?” Anthony stood there, holding out a small bouquet.
“Come in.” Olive waited until he stepped inside before adding, “Vera’s gone home.”
“But she’s got an exam tomorrow,” he frowned.
“I’ll explain to the faculty—she can resit later. It’s her mum.” Olive’s gaze lingered on the flowers.
“These are for you,” he said, offering them.
“Ta. Fancy a cuppa?” She took the bouquet to the windowsill, picking up a jar.
“I’ll get water. You get settled.” She smiled and left.
Anthony only removed his shoes before stepping to Vera’s bed. He sat, running a hand over the cheap coverlet as if smoothing absent fingers.
Olive returned, placed the jar with the flowers on the desk, stepped back, and admired them.
“Lovely. What are they?”
“Sweet peas,” Anthony said. “I should go.” He stood.
“Wait—did you and Vera have plans?” Olive asked quickly, not wanting him to leave.
“Yeah. Got tickets for that gig.”
“Seriously? Take me instead. No sense wasting them.”
Anthony hesitated.
“You’ve got an exam.”
“So what?” Olive waved a hand. “Been revising all day—need a break.”
He deliberated. Vera was gone, the tickets unused. They’d only just started seeing each other—nothing serious. Going with her roommate wasn’t betrayal, right?
“Alright,” he said.
“Brilliant!” Olive clapped, bouncing. “Wait outside—just need to change.”
“Yeah, right.” He hurriedly laced his shoes and stepped into the hall.
Five minutes later, Olive emerged. Anthony noticed she’d freshened her lipstick, touched up her lashes, pinned her hair just so. How?
“Come on—we’ll miss it,” he urged.
At the gig, Olive danced, arms aloft, shouting lyrics with the crowd in euphoric unison. She kept glancing at Anthony. He relaxed, caught up in her energy, yelling along too.
Afterward, they walked home, debating the best moments.
“That bit—” Olive hummed a tune.
“Yeah! And when—” Anthony echoed another riff, mangling a few lyrics.
They reached the dorm. Olive jiggled the locked door.
“Mrs. Wilkins is on. She’ll never let us in. What now?” she whispered, turning to Anthony.
“Here.” He tugged her along the building. Rounding the corner, they spotted two girls squeezing through a ground-floor window. “Quick—after them!”
He boosted Olive up. Hands grabbed her inside, pulling her feather-light onto the sill. Then—a whistle’s shrill blast.
“Hurry!” Olive hissed from the window.
Anthony hauled himself up, tumbling inside. Olive yanked the curtain shut as the whistle echoed away. The other girls giggled.
“Cheers. We’ll go,” Anthony nudged Olive toward the door.
They bolted upstairs, collapsed into Olive’s room, and burst out laughing.
“Should be quiet now. I’ll head off,” Anthony said, catching his breath.
The room was dark—they hadn’t turned the light on.
“Stay. I like you. Really like you,” Olive whispered urgently, as if afraid of being overheard.
She pressed close, tilting her face up, lips parted—
Vera returned to the deserted dorm at term’s end. Olive and Anthony were still away, like most students. She arranged to sit the missed exam, presenting a hospital note. The crisis had passed, though her mum remained unwell.
She scraped through the exam. Term resumed, but Olive never returned, ignoring calls. The faculty said she’d taken leave due to illness.
Soon, a new roommate moved in. Studies, Anthony—no time to wonder about Olive. Soon, everyone forgot her. Anthony never told Vera about the gig, what came after. It all felt like a hazy dream.
Twenty-one years later.
“Mum! Dad! I’m back!” A girl—Anthony’s echo—burst in.
“How’s uni?” He lowered his paper.
“Let her change first,” Vera called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s warming.”
Soon, they sat around the table.
“Mum, Dad—today I met a girl at uni who looks just like me. Everyone noticed.”
“Funny how that happens. They say everyone has a double. More potatoes?” Vera asked her husband.
“Dad? You zoned out.” Marina frowned.
“Ta, I’m fine. Did you talk to her?”
“Course. Final-year. Get this—her name’s Sunny. Sunny **Bright**.”
“When I was at uni, my roommate was Olive—Olive Bright, wasn’t she, Anthony? Left after first year.” Vera studied him.
“Yeah! Sunny Bright—pretty, eh?” Marina grinned.
“I only had eyes for you. Didn’t notice anyone else,” Anthony said, sipping tea—then choking. “How many times must I say—don’t pour boiling water!”
“Sorry.” Vera rushed to add cold water.
“Don’t want it.” He pushed the cup away.
“Really, so alike?” Vera murmured, watching him leave.
“Everyone says so…”
Anthony lay on the sofa, feigning sleep, mind racing. *Coincidence? No. It happened. Admit it. That’s why she left. Idiot. What were you thinking?*
“Anthony, up—you’ll ruin your sleep. You ill?” Vera’s voice cut in.
“No.”
He barely slept. Next morning, he called work, claiming a toothache, then drove to the dorm.
“Does Sunny Bright live here?” he asked the porter—a woman eerily like Mrs. Wilkins.
“Who’s asking?”
“Her uncle. Passing through…”
The woman eyed him skeptically. Three girls clattered downstairs.
“There she is. Bright—visitor!”
“Who?” Sunny glanced at Anthony.
“Coming?” Her friends lingered at the door.
“Go ahead. Who are you?”
“Let’s step outside.”
“No. Are you really her uncle?” The porter narrowed her eyes.
“Not necessary.” Anthony turned to Sunny. “Is your mum Olive? Olive Bright? Were you born September 25th?”
“Who *are* you?”
“Answer me.”
SilenceAnthony looked into her eyes—so like Olive’s—and whispered, “I never meant to leave her, or you.”
