Eleanor Crawford was packing old photographs into a box when she found the picture from her graduation dance. Forty years ago, she stood beside Michael, his hand on her shoulder tentative, as if afraid to startle. They smiled in the photo, but Eleanor remembered her trembling hands when he approached, asking if they could be photographed together.
“Ellie, could I? Just for a keepsake…?” he’d mumbled, blushing, eyes averted.
She’d nodded mutely, heart pounding wildly. All that final school year, Michael had walked her home, carried her satchel, helped with maths. She pretended not to notice, that it meant nothing.
Sorting through her late husband William’s things now, Eleanor understood how much had been lost. William was a good man, a caring father to their two children, sharing thirty-five years. Yet her heart remembered only that shy boy from the dance.
“Mum, what are you up to?” Her daughter Emma peered into the bedroom. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, just these photos. See how young I was?” Eleanor passed the picture.
Emma examined it closely. “Who’s that with you? Not Dad…”
“Just a classmate,” Eleanor replied curtly.
“He’s handsome. Looks at you so… smitten.” Emma smiled. “Was he a sweetheart?”
Eleanor turned towards the window. October rain speckled the glass, yellow maple leaves reflected in the drops. “No sweetheart. Just friends,” she said softly. Then added, as if pleading her case: “He went to polytechnic; I went to university. Different paths.”
Emma shrugged, set the photo aside, and left. Eleanor remained alone with her memories.
After graduation, they’d met only a handful of times. Michael would visit, they’d sit at the kitchen table drinking tea. Eleanor’s mother, Anne, clearly favoured him. “Fine young man,” she’d tell Eleanor. “Hard-working, steady. Looks at you like you hung the moon.”
“Mum, don’t be daft,” Eleanor would wave her off. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends,” sighed Anne. “I was marrying at your age.”
His last visit was August before term started. Eleanor was preparing for medical school, stacks of chemistry and biology books crowding her desk, notes scattered everywhere.
“Interrupting?” he asked from the doorway.
“Come in,” Eleanor nodded, not looking up.
Michael sat opposite, silent a long moment. Then he spoke: “Ellie. Marry me.”
Her heart stopped. She lifted her eyes to his. He sat upright, hands on his knees, each word clearly a struggle. “I mean it. I love you… tremendously. Since Year Six. Only you. You go to uni. I’ll work, save for a flat. Wait till you finish, then… have a family?”
Eleanor looked at him, speechless. Her chest felt tight, a “yes” screamed silently within, urging her to throw her arms around him. Something held her back. Fear of seeming rash? Wanting her degree first? Or perhaps the terrifying weight of his seriousness? “Mike, I…” she started.
“Don’t answer now,” he cut in. “Think. I’ll wait.”
A week later, Eleanor left for university in Oxford. She never answered. Returning as a student, she found Michael courting their classmate, Meredith Knight. Eleanor sighed, setting the photo down. Decades later, it felt like yesterday. Meredith proudly flashing her engagement ring; Michael nodding awkwardly when passing Eleanor on the street; Eleanor offering congratulations and well-wishes.
At university, she met William. A year older, handsome, self-assured. He courted her persistently—flowers, theatre trips. Eleanor married him in her third year. They had a large wedding; everyone was envious.
“Mum, did you love Dad?” grown-up Emma asked once.
“Of course,” Eleanor replied.
It was true. She had loved him. Differently, less acutely than she might have loved Michael, but sincerely, familiarly. William was a good husband, a good father. Earned decently, never drank, never strayed. Eleanor worked as a GP, raised the children, kept house. An ordinary life.
Occasionally, she saw Michael around town. He aged: wrinkles, greying hair. But his eyes remained—kind, with a trace of sadness. They’d exchange greetings, pleasantries about the weather, the children. Eleanor knew he and Meredith had three children, that he worked as a foreman at the factory, living in a maisonette on the outskirts.
Their last meeting was in hospital. William was in Cardiology after a heart attack; Michael, coincidentally, in the neighbouring ward. Heart trouble too. They collided in the corridor.
“Ellie?” He seemed startled. “What brings you here?”
“My husband,” she explained. “You?”
“Oh, just a bit of bother,” Michael waved a hand. “Doctors say work, stress…”
They stood awkwardly. Then, unexpectedly: “Remember? When I proposed? At your desk…”
Eleanor nodded. Of course she remembered.
“Silly fool I was,” Michael sighed. “Shouldn’t have proposed. Just said I loved you. Maybe you’d have answered then…”
“Mike, please,” she whispered. “Why now?”
“I still wonder sometimes,” he continued, ignoring her. “How would we have been? Good, I reckon. You the doctor, me the foreman. Lovely children…”
“You have lovely children,” Eleanor said quickly. “Meredith showed photos.”
“Right good kids,” he agreed. “But it’s just… never right, see? Whole life, not right. I respect Meredith, fine woman, excellent home-maker. But it was only you I ever loved. Still do.”
Eleanor’s legs felt weak. Leaning against the wall, looking at this tired, ageing man, she suddenly understood: her too. It was *him* she’d loved all along, not William. Just too afraid to admit it.
“Mike, I—”
“Mr. Anderson?” a nurse called. “Doctor wants you!”
He nodded, turning back to Eleanor. “Go to your husband. Get well soon.”
She tried to speak, but he was already shuffling down the corridor, leaning heavily on the wall.
William recovered, went home. A month later, Eleanor learned Michael had died. A second heart attack; couldn’t reach the hospital in time.
At the funeral, she stood apart, watching Meredith sob, the children weep. She shed no tears; inside, everything turned to stone.
Home later, William asked: “You alright? Feeling peaky?”
“No, just tired,” she said.
That night, once he slept, she wept silently into her pillow. Wept for never saying the crucial words. Never telling *him*. That she’d loved him always. That passing the factory, her steps would slow, hoping for a glimpse. That she’d kept every photo where they were together.
Now, sorting her late husband’s possessions, Eleanor thought the same thoughts. William died six months ago. Now, only memories kept her company.
“Mum, supper?” Emma reappeared at the door.
“Coming,” Eleanor answered.
She took the graduation photo, studied it long, then pressed it to her heart. “Forgive me, Mike,” she whispered. “I did love you. Always. Just never said it in time.”
Outside, the autumn day faded. Meredith lived somewhere in town, widowed
The room seemed to hold its breath as the photograph’s silent yearning bled into the gathering twilight, becoming one with the shadows that swallowed all her unsaid words and all his unanswered devotion.
