Oh, their story was as simple and classic as they cometheyd been in the same class since Year One, and by Year Eleven, theyd fallen in love. Those last two school years, their love just bloomed. And everyone adored them because they were both gorgeous, and their relationship had this pure, almost noble quality to it. Everyone just knew theyd get married after schoolit was only a matter of time. Jake and Emily.
And Jakes belief that it would happen was as unshakable as a Scouts oath. Emily never doubted him, not for a secondlike trusting Big Ben to chime at midnight on New Years Eve.
Even I, their form tutor, adored them both. Jake was focused, drivenknew exactly where he was headed. He wanted to be a barrister, so he poured everything into history and politics. Emily? She was going to be “the greatest English writer of all time”thats how Jake put it. Because she wrote endless medieval romances, and Jake was always her first reader. I was the secondtaught them English lit, after all.
And oh, those stories! Full of dramatic, heart-wrenching lovethe kind where She renounced all worldly riches for Him, and He fought tooth and nail against anyone who dared try to take Her away. Castles, drawbridges over chasms, wicked stepmothers, cold-hearted fathers who moulded their childrens happiness to their own designs. But in the end, the “dark enchantments shattered”only for Her, or Him, to die tragically in the final act. The truth always won, but never quite in time.
Despite all that, both Jake and I believed in our Emily. Jake because his heart and soul were hers, forever. Me? Because every now and then, through all the flowery prose, thered be these startlingly perfect lines. Phrases that stuck:
*”The brittle husks of last autumns leaves crackled underfoot…”*
*”The monks hoods, drifting above the crowd, looked like sugarloaves of sin…”*
*”The door yawned heavily, and the world sank back into mornings slumber…”*
Still remember them, even now.
But nothing lasts forever. They finished school.
Emily got into a prestigious writing programme, studied under some big-shot poeteven invited me to a couple of her workshops. Saw one of his famous mates there once. She was brilliant, published early, first year even. I was so proud. Of her, and, wellof myself. Like Id “spotted her, nurtured her, helped her grow.”
Jake? He was just proud of her. Every time she published something new, hed turn up at school, fidgeting while I read, nudging me to pay attention to certain bits. Then hed stare at me, eyes wide, and ask, “Well?…” And in that one wordhope, adoration, love, everything a young heart could pour into a question.
But Jakes mum? Never liked Emily. No idea why. She worked quietly, subtly, to unravel them. Never tried recruiting meknew Id side against herbut she was all sugar and honey whenever we met. Too much, really. Imagine someone shoving sweets, syrup, jam into your tea, then offering more. Not hospitalityjust torture, wrapped in a smile.
Anyway, she won. Jake went off to study law at Oxford. Emily told me firstshowed up at school with this hollow, haunted look, voice like a tragic Shakespearean heroine. Said it didnt matter, though. Theyd marry as soon as he graduated. His leaving was actually goodgave her time to focus on her book deal, catch up on uni work.
And just like that, things settled. They studiedhim in England, her in France. “Hes a bit west of Paris,” shed say, “Im a bit east.” Visits grew rare. Jakes letters even rarerlife in Oxford was “steady, dull.”
Then, about a year later, Emily turned up out of the blue. Invited me to her wedding. To a classmate. “Hes in the poetry stream,” she said, like that was the biggest hurdle. The look in her eyes said *dont ask*. So I didnt. Because by then, I knew how life worked.
Whats that line? *”The nightingales have sung their last for Davydov and Nagulnov, the wheat has whispered its farewell, the nameless stream chimed over the stones… and thats all.”*
Yeah. Thats all. Another love story, over. Another triumph of “grown-up logic.” Another perfectly average family born. And soon, probably, Jakes own.
Emily never visited again. Moved away with her poet husband. Jake never came back either.
That was that.
Till yesterday.
I was leaving school after sixth period. May, warm, everything bright and young. Just beautiful. And thenJake walks up. Older, but Id know him anywhere. Sixteen years, hadnt seen him.
“Hello. I waited for you… Yes, Im fine, thanks. Married, two girls. Work? Got my own firm. Emilys husband died. Nine days ago. Shes alone now, with their daughter… Lets go see her. Ive got the car.”
That look again. *Dont ask.* So I didnt. Because by then, I knewlifes just made this way.
