“COULDN’T LOVE HIM BACK”
“Alright, girls, which one of you is Lily?” The stranger eyed me and my mate Emily with a sly grin.
“That’d be me. Why?” I frowned, clutching my ice cream like it might explain this odd encounter.
“Letter for you, Lily. From William,” she said, fishing a crumpled envelope from her cardigan pocket.
“William? Where is he?”
“Transferred to a care home for adults. Waited for you like you were the last biscuit in the tin. Nearly wore his eyes out staring at the gate. Gave me this to proofread—didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you. Right, I’m off—lunch duty. Work here as a carer.” She gave me a look that could curdle milk, sighed, and scurried away.
…It all started one summer when Emily and I, sixteen and bored, wandered onto the grounds of a strange building—adventure trumped common sense. We plonked ourselves on a bench, giggling over some nonsense, when two lads approached.
“Alright, girls? Bored? Fancy a chat?” The taller one stuck out his hand. “William. That’s Oliver.” Oliver nodded, quiet as a mouse.
They were… odd. Polite in a way that screamed “1950s head boy.” William eyed our outfits like a disapproving vicar. “Bit short, those skirts, eh? And Emily—that neckline’s daring.”
Emily snorted. “Eyes front, lads, or they might just pop out.”
William wasn’t having it. “Hard not to look. We’re blokes. You don’t smoke, do you?”
“Like chimneys,” I deadpanned. “But only for the aesthetic.”
That’s when we noticed their legs—William shuffled, Oliver had a limp. “You here for treatment?” I asked.
“Yep. Motorbike crash,” William said, rehearsed. “Oliver botched a jump off a cliff. Be out soon.”
We believed them. No idea they’d been in care since childhood, spinning tales about accidents because “disabled from birth” didn’t sound as dashing. We were their glimpse of normal life—two silly girls who didn’t know they were temporary entertainment.
But they were sharp, well-read, oddly wise. We started visiting weekly. Partly out of pity, partly because they were better company than our whinging schoolmates.
William picked flowers (probably from the staff garden) for me; Oliver folded origami for Emily, blushing like a beetroot. We’d squish onto the bench—William practically vibrating next to me, Oliver angled toward Emily, who pretended not to adore the attention.
Summer fizzed out. Autumn drowned us in rain. School swallowed us whole. We forgot them.
…Until exams ended, the last bell rang, and Emily and I—older, supposedly wiser—wandered back to the care home. Sat on that same bench, waiting.
No William. No Oliver.
Then—bam! A carer marched over, thrust the letter at me. I tore it open:
*”Dearest Lily, my fleeting summer rose! You were the highlight reel of my life. Six months I’ve stared at that gate, you never came. Can’t blame you—our paths were never meant to cross. But thank you for showing me love exists. I hear your laugh in my sleep. One more glimpse of you would’ve been oxygen to me. I’m drowning without it.
Oliver and I turned eighteen. They’re moving us to another home. Doubt we’ll meet again. You’ll forget me. I won’t forget you.
Goodbye, my impossible girl.”*
—*Yours always, William*
A pressed daisy fluttered out. My stomach dropped. That quote about “being responsible for those you tame” clanged in my head.
I’d had no idea. To me, he was just a mate—someone to tease, to chat with. A bit of harmless flirting, like tossing crumbs to a pigeon. Never crossed my mind he’d bake them into a wedding cake in his head.
…Years rolled by. The letter yellowed, the daisy crumbled. But I remember the jokes, the easy talks.
Emily, though? Oliver snuck into her heart. His parents had dumped him at birth—one leg shorter, not their “perfect” son. She trained as a teacher, works at a care home now. Married him. Two kids.
William? Oliver says he lived alone till his mum, struck by late guilt, dragged him to her cottage in Yorkshire. Then—nothing.
Some loves are quiet. Some are wildfires. Mine was a spark. His was the whole bonfire.
