You Are My World
James and Emily lived in the same apartment building, one floor apart. James had just started Year 6 and was considered responsible enough to look after five-year-old Emily, who lived across the hall. Her mother was a surgeon and often worked weekends, tending to critical patients.
James treated Emily with gentle authority—feeding her, shielding her, even scolding her when needed. Emily, in turn, followed him everywhere, her big blue eyes wide with admiration.
One summer, Emily caught tonsillitis—how she managed that in June, no one knew. James spent days at her side. His friends, knowing where to find him, called Emily’s flat to ask him to join their football match.
“I can’t,” James said firmly. “Looking after Emily.”
“Bring her along! She can cheer!” suggested Oliver.
“She’s ill—has a fever. You’ll have to play without me.”
“But who’ll be in goal?” groaned a frustrated Thomas.
“Take turns,” James offered, watching their disappointed faces.
“Nah, that’s no fun. We won’t go either.”
“Fine, come over,” James sighed, letting them in.
Emily, wrapped in a scarf, sat on the sofa flipping through a picture book. She brightened when she saw the boys.
“These are my mates, Thomas and Oliver,” James introduced them. “Mind if they stay?”
“Read to me?” Emily held out her book with childlike eagerness.
“Let’s build a fort instead,” Thomas suggested, eyeing the dining table.
“How? We don’t have sticks or straw,” Emily said, eyes glinting—whether from fever or excitement, it was hard to tell.
“Don’t need straw. Can we use the sofa blankets?” Thomas asked.
One blanket wasn’t enough, so Emily directed James to fetch another. Soon, all four were crammed beneath the table—hot, stuffy, and thrillingly dark.
“Let’s tell scary stories,” Oliver proposed. “My granddad fought in the war.”
“Boring,” Thomas dismissed.
“He had loads of medals. Delivered bread during the Siege of London,” Oliver pressed.
“Still boring,” Thomas yawned.
“People were so hungry, they ate anything—dogs, cats, even… each other,” Oliver added darkly.
“Ew! You can’t eat people!” Emily shuddered, pressing into James.
“I know scarier stories,” Thomas cut in. “About the Shadow Man. Last year at camp, we’d tell them at night—proper terrifying.”
Emily froze. The word *shadow* alone was enough to spook her in the dim fort. At “terrifying,” she trembled.
“He wears all black. If you’re not careful, he snatches you away, and you’re never seen again. Loves kids most—especially naughty ones who wander off…”
“Enough,” James snapped, feeling Emily quake against him. “She won’t sleep tonight thanks to you.”
“I’m *not* little,” Emily pouted. “But I don’t want to hear any more. It’s too scary.”
The front door clicked. Footsteps approached, then paused. Thomas fidgeted; Oliver’s breath quickened. Emily buried her face in James’s chest, his heartbeat loud under her ear.
The blanket lifted. Emily screamed.
“There you are!” Her mother’s voice rang out.
“Mum!” Emily scrambled free and flung herself into her arms.
“Why’s the table covered? What were you doing?” Her mother eyed the tousled boys emerging.
“It’s a fort. We told scary stories,” Emily babbled.
“Weren’t you frightened?”
“Yes. When I heard footsteps, I thought the Shadow Man came for us.”
Her mother’s sharp gaze landed on James, who ducked his head guiltily.
“Clean this up and wash your hands. Lunch is ready.”
Later, the boys left for football, and Emily napped—though the Shadow Man haunted her dreams.
Years passed. James started secondary school; Emily, primary. He babysat less, but she still trailed after him, especially during thunderstorms—her greatest fear. When the boys went skating or to the cinema, Emily tagged along, deploying tears if refused.
James taught her to skate, reheat soup, and love adventure novels. By sixth form, he dated a pretty classmate, Charlotte. Once, Emily spied them kissing behind the houses—her childish heart splintered with jealousy.
After school, James enlisted in the military academy, visiting rarely. Emily both rejoiced (no girls around) and ached (missing him terribly).
On one leave, finding his parents out, he knocked next door. Emily, now a teenager, blushed at the sight of him in uniform. James, too, noticed how she’d grown—soft curves, long lashes. Over lunch, his lingering glances made her cheeks burn.
Her mother asked about his posting. He answered, eyes fixed on Emily as if speaking only to her. Later, his parents returned, and he left—leaving her flustered.
After academy, James was stationed abroad. Emily studied medicine. Three years later, he returned. She waited by the window, heart pounding at every footstep.
“He’s grown. Time to marry. You’re just a sister to him,” her mother said.
Days passed. No visit. Pride kept Emily from seeking him out. Then, from the window, she watched a taxi arrive. James stepped out—then opened the door for a pregnant woman.
Panic seized her. *He’s married.* She locked herself in her room and wept. Convincing herself to move on, she fled to Edinburgh with a friend.
Returning, she learned James had left. Heartache dulled to resignation. After uni, she worked in rehabilitation, specialising in spinal injuries.
Years later, “Dr. Alexandra Wilson” was respected by colleagues and adored by male patients—though none caught her eye. Until a new arrival: a wounded officer.
“The handsome lieutenant’s back from duty,” nurses whispered. “Pity if he’s disabled.”
Emily recognised him instantly—the man from her dreams. But James didn’t know her behind her surgical mask.
Nurses flirted, dubbing him “the Brooding Captain.” One day, limping in early, he studied her unmasked face—something familiar niggling at him.
A storm broke at noon. Thunder rattled the windows. Emily flinched.
“Scared of storms?” James teased.
“Since childhood. Boys loved terrorising me with Shadow Man tales.”
He stared.
“Emily?” he breathed. “I heard your name but didn’t connect it. You work here? I’ve thought of you often. Are you… married?”
“Are you?” she countered.
“No. Never found anyone like you.”
“But… I saw you with a pregnant woman—”
James chuckled. “An officer’s wife. I was just helping her travel. They’ve a son now.”
Emily’s stomach dropped. All these years, she’d assumed… Too proud to ask, too cowardly to stay.
Another thunderclap. She instinctively leaned toward him.
“Remember the fort?” James asked softly. “How you screamed when your mum lifted the blanket?”
His gaze held tenderness now. She longed to press close, as she had as a child, but only smiled.
“Those are my happiest childhood memories.”
“Appointments to attend,” she excused herself.
The next day, he arrived with flowers. “Never gave you any. Leaving in an hour.”
“So soon? What about treatment?”
“Medical discharge. My father’s ill. Emily, I need to say—”
“Dr. Wilson, the director needs you,” a nurse interrupted.
He left unfulfilled.
Two weeks later, he barged in mid-consultation.
“Before you vanish again,” he blurted, “I can’t live without you. Marry me.” A velvet box opened.
The tactful patient slipped out.
“I’m staying. The director’s helping me find work here.” His eyes searched hers. “You’re quiet. Too late?”
“Nearly half a lifetime too late,” she murmured, resting her cheek on his chest. His heart thudded against her ear.
Love. We debate its meaning, chase it, mistake gratitude or pity for it. We dismiss it when near, mourn it when lost. Only in absence do we grasp its truth—the love that makes life worth living. And if we’re lucky, we get a second chance to hold it fast.
