In every yeargroup, no matter how much time has passed, the same core remains the people who keep in touch, meet up, and hold the circle together. When a reunion anniversary rolls around, the same familiar faces take charge of the venue, the menu, the programme everything runs smoothly, as if it were second nature.
When the guest list is finally drawn up, the conversation sharpens. Teachers, of course, must be invited. But will all the former classmates turn up?
Everyone will be there, says Simon confidently. Only Tom Green isnt on the list. Hes become a bit of a drunk.
What do you mean Tom wont be? Imogen shouts, her thickframed glasses glinting. He will be! I spoke to him.
Imogen, Fiona, the former class rep, interjects quietly, he might get drunk and itll be awkward. I saw him the other day, barely able to stay upright, and he didnt even recognise me.
Imogen sighs.
Its fine. I know hes getting ready.
Maybe, she adds, for him this meeting matters more than it does for any of us together.
—
At school Sam Wood had always been different. Gentle, quiet, friendly. He never raised his voice or hurt anyone. He listened, helped, and was there when someone needed him. His notebooks were neat, his handwriting straight, his dictations spotless. Physics and maths came easily; equations seemed to whisper their solutions directly to him. He almost always left Olympiads with a diploma perhaps not first place, but always a result. On assemblies he was placed beside the top students, and a hand on his shoulder felt more like embarrassment than pride thats how he took any compliment.
He dreamed of a military academy after Year9. I still remember the openday visit with his form tutor; he returned inspired, talking about the uniform, the drill, the discipline, and how they would teach him to be useful. Everyone believed he would succeed.
At home, however, things were different. His father had died years ago, and his mother drank.
One afternoon, after a serious binge, his mother staggered in from the back of the school hall, eyes cloudy, hair a mess. When Sam was handed his diploma, she suddenly shouted, Well done, Sam! My son!
He stood with flushed cheeks, fists clenched, as if he wanted to sink into the floor. His mothers praise hit him like a random explosion exactly the kind of affirmation he didnt need.
His plans for the academy fell apart. He feared his younger sister would be taken to a childrens home if he left. So he stayed, kept studying, took evening jobs, began to skip school, fell in with the wrong crowd, and everything went off the rails.
—
Sam prepares for the reunion in his own way. He finds a grey suit thats two sizes too big but clean. He spends ages choosing a shirt, ironing it, checking the buttons. He shaves carefully, tidies his hair doing the best he can. He abstains from alcohol for two days, wanting to be himself on the night everyone gathers.
When he reaches the restaurant, he hesitates at the doorway. He lingers nearby, out of sight, watching as former classmates greet each other, hug, flash phones, crack jokes, and laugh loudly, as if everything now comes so easily to them.
He feels embarrassed and unsure, as if a single misstep could shatter the fragile picture of the evening. After about an hour, he finally summons the courage to step inside.
—
He stands in the entrance hair clean but untrimmed, suit too large, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes shy and tentative.
Imogen calls out immediately, Sam, over here! This is your spot!
He walks over. The room brightens: toasts are raised, laughter erupts, music plays.
Sam drinks barely a sip, eats almost nothing he simply sits, watches, listens. Occasionally a faint smile crosses his face.
As the night draws to a close, Sam stands. His voice trembles; each word feels heavy, as if years of bottled tension are finally spilling out.
Thank you thank you for inviting me this is probably the best thing thats happened to me in the last fifteen years
His eyes glisten, a lump forms in his throat, shoulders tighten, hands shake slightly. He appears vulnerable, open, like a child believing for the first time that he will be accepted as he is.
I Im very grateful sorry if I ever well, if I ever did anything to anyone
Then the group choruses, Of course, Sam! Were thrilled youre here! We wouldnt even have thought about not inviting you!
His sincere emotions are softened by the uniform echo of smiles, pats on the back, and loud reassurances. It feels less like genuine compassion and more like polite social nicety words warm, eyes sliding, concern on display.
Imogen watches it all, thinking, You didnt really want to invite him, did you?
But the most important thing is that Sam believes it. He has no reason to doubt the words. He thanks them, bows slightly, and leaves among the first to go. He slips out quietly, without farewells, without waiting, without looking back.
After hes gone, the others continue laughing, swapping old stories, updating each other on jobs, lives, and who theyve met and the night rolls on with laughter, music, and clinking glasses.
—
Late that night, Imogen walks home and spots Sam on a bench outside his block, under a dim streetlamp. He sits hunched, already drunk, eyes cloudy, hands resting on his knees. She doesnt recognise him.
She steps closer, heart tightening:
Why did you drink, Sam? You held your own tonight, you were yourself why now?
She looks at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the flickering lamp, and thinks:
How many lives break quietly, unnoticed, because no hand, no shoulder, no kind word was there? If someone had been there, would Sam be sitting here now, in that illfitting suit, drunk
The question lingers in the nights silence. No answer comes.
