**What She Saw in Him – Ten Years Later**
We’d waited for this day for what felt like forever. A full decade had passed since the final bell rang at our little village school outside Liverpool, and now, almost everyone from our Year 11 class was back in that familiar classroom. Everyone except Dave, stuck in endless business trips, and Lucy, who was home with her newborn.
Then the door opened—and in she walked.
Emily.
That Emily. The one who’d once left half the boys in class breathless. The one whose smile could knock you off your feet in the school corridors. And there she was, standing among us again. Only now with a ring on her finger and the same gentle smile, untouched by time.
“Still the same, Simon!” she called across the table.
I wanted to say something clever, but my throat went dry. Same old reaction. Only this time, we weren’t seventeen.
Back in Year 11, we lads were idiots. Six lanky fools, all hopelessly smitten with the same girl. Emily. Clever, beautiful, top of the class. And more than that—she had this light inside her. She was friends with everyone, never flirted, never played favourites. And that only made us worse.
“Why d’you lot chase her like puppies after a sausage?” sneered Hannah from the next desk over.
“Jealous, are you?” snapped Tom.
I never noticed how her fists clenched. Never realised her eyes weren’t glinting with anger—but tears.
Emily, though, started staying late after school more often—with quiet, unremarkable Ben. The kind of lad you’d barely notice. Except he carried her books. Walked her to the library. And listened.
“What does she see in him?” I fumed. “He’s such a wet lettuce!”
“At least he’s got more patience than the rest of us,” Tom muttered.
The girls hated Emily for it. Especially Hannah. We were too blind to see. And then—it happened. The thing that shattered us for good.
An ordinary morning. Just before lunch. Emily walked in, sat down—and leapt up with a shriek. Her back and dress were drenched in thick, sticky blackcurrant jam. The exact same stuff they’d served at break. The stain looked vile. Red-faced with shame, she bolted from the room. And then—we turned on each other. Accusations flew like punches: “You did it out of spite!” “Was it you?” “Bet it was Hannah!” And I was sure it was her. I never forgave her for it.
After that, our “tight-knit” class fell apart. Grudges festered. Suspicion ate at us. We skipped prom. Didn’t take a single group photo. Just grabbed our GCSEs and scattered. Our form tutor cried quietly in the staff room. We said nothing.
And now…
Now Emily sat across from me. Same smile, just calmer, wiser. Turned out, she’d tracked everyone down—through social media. Made a group. Pulled our scattered class back together online, then in person. And suddenly, we remembered we’d once been close. That we were part of something bigger. We laughed like no time had passed at all.
Then Emily called someone in from the hallway. A tall bloke walked in. A face achingly familiar—her little brother, Jack. The scrawny, snot-nosed kid we remembered.
“Go on, tell them! You promised!” Emily nudged him.
Jack hesitated. Then blurted out:
“It was me. I spilled the jam. She made me rewrite my homework twice, so I… well… got even.”
Silence. We’d missed prom—because of a kid and a spoonful of jam. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
Later, everyone shared updates—jobs, kids, lives. I stayed quiet. Mine wasn’t worth mentioning. Then Emily stood, draping an arm around Ben. That same quiet, unassuming Ben.
“Five years married,” she said, like it was nothing.
I clenched my jaw. Not from anger. From the ache of realising I still hadn’t let go of that schoolboy dream.
When the noise died down, I cornered Ben:
“How’d you do it?”
He smiled. “Remember when she broke her leg skiing after exams?”
I nodded. I remembered too well. Even visited once—with chocolates. Stood at the door. Left.
“I went every day. Cleaned, cooked, helped. Read to her. Then just… sat there. One day she cried. Said she was scared she’d never walk again. I promised if she couldn’t, I’d carry her. Always.”
I downed my pint. “You earned her. You didn’t just wait—you were there.”
“I just loved her. No conditions. No games. No expecting anything back.”
As I turned to leave, Hannah caught up.
“Simon, wait. One for the road?”
She handed me a shot.
“So, Captain. Lost the war?”
I looked around: Jack was sprawled asleep with an empty bottle, Ben was brushing a strand of hair from Emily’s face, and Hannah—grown, gorgeous—stared at me like I was the dream she’d waited for.
“No,” I clinked her glass. “Just wasn’t good enough.”
“Ten years I waited to hear that,” she whispered. “Now you’re free. My schoolboy crush.”
And suddenly, I understood. How blind I’d been. How I’d never walked her home. How she’d always been there.
“Maybe… take a walk?” I nodded to the door.
She froze. Then pulled on her coat.
“No daft antics, Simon. I’m not that silly girl anymore.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just… want to know you now.”
And we stepped out. Into the quiet Liverpool night, where maybe—after ten years—everything was just beginning.
**Lesson:** The heart’s hungriest mistake is chasing what shines, while trampling the love that’s quietly waited all along.
