“COULDN’T LOVE HER BACK”
The girl eyed us with playful suspicion, her gaze lingering on me and my friend. “Alright, which one of you is Lily?” she asked, her voice laced with teasing curiosity.
“I’m Lily. Why?” I replied, confused.
She reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a crumpled envelope. “Letter for you. From William.”
“William?” I frowned. “Where is he?”
“Transferred to the adult care home. He waited for you, Lily—like a man starving for a crumb. Wore his eyes out hoping you’d come. Let me read this first to check for mistakes—didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I best be off. Lunch service starts soon—I work here as a carer.” With one last reproachful glance, she hurried away.
…
It had all begun on a careless summer afternoon. Sixteen and restless, my friend Emma and I had wandered onto unfamiliar grounds, itching for adventure. We’d settled onto a bench, giggling and chatting, when two boys approached.
“Hello there,” the taller one said, offering his hand. “Name’s William. Bored? Fancy a chat?”
“Lily,” I replied. “This is Emma. And your quiet friend here?”
“Leon.” His voice was soft, barely audible.
They struck us as odd—old-fashioned, rigid. William eyed our skirts with disapproval. “Bit short, isn’t it? And Emma—that neckline’s rather bold.”
Emma smirked. “Well, boys, best keep your eyes to yourselves—wouldn’t want them wandering where they shouldn’t.”
William huffed. “Hard not to notice. Men, after all. Don’t tell me you smoke too?”
“Occasionally,” I teased. “But never properly.”
Only then did we notice—something wasn’t right with their legs. William moved stiffly, Leon with an awkward limp.
“You both patients here?” I asked.
“Yeah,” William answered too quickly. “Motorbike crash. Leon took a bad dive off a cliff. We’ll be out soon.”
We believed them. Had no idea they’d been here since childhood—confined to this place, prisoners of their own bodies. Their “accident” stories were rehearsed lies, shields against pity. To them, we were a fleeting taste of freedom.
Yet they were brilliant—sharp, well-read, wise beyond their years. Soon, we visited weekly. At first, out of guilt—then because we liked them.
Our little ritual took shape. William would pluck flowers from the garden for me; Leon shyly handed Emma intricately folded origami. We’d sit together—William beside me, Leon turned fully toward Emma, who flushed under his quiet attention.
Summer slipped into autumn. School swallowed us whole. Exams, graduation—life rushed on. By the time we remembered, months had passed.
Back at the care home, we waited on that same bench. No William with wilting daisies, no Leon with paper cranes. Just an empty two hours—until that carer returned, William’s letter in hand.
I tore it open:
*”Dearest Lily, my sweet, unreachable star. You never realised, did you? I loved you from the first moment. Those afternoons were my only breath of life. Six months I’ve stared at that window, waiting. You forgot me.
Our paths were never meant to cross. But thank you—for showing me real love. I remember your voice, your laugh, your hands. I ache without you. Just one more glimpse—that’s all I ask.
Leon and I turned eighteen. They’re moving us soon. Doubt we’ll meet again. My heart’s in tatters. Maybe one day, this pain will fade.
Goodbye, my darling.”*
—*Yours always, William.*
A dried flower fluttered out. Shame knotted my stomach. I’d never guessed his feelings. To me, he was just a friend—a clever, kind one. Had I flirted? Maybe. But never meant to kindle this.
Years have passed. The letter yellowed. The flower crumbled to dust. But I remember—his jokes, the way his eyes lit up when I laughed.
There’s an epilogue. Emma fell for Leon—forgotten by his parents, his leg deformed from birth. She became a teacher at a care home. Married him. They’ve two grown sons now.
William? Leon says he lived alone. At forty, his mother finally came. Took one look at him, wept, and brought him home to her village. After that—he vanished into silence.
