**Diary Entry 12th May**
It all began quite ordinarilytextbook, you might say. They sat side by side from Year One, and by Sixth Form, they were in love. That love bloomed over their last two years of school, and everyone admired them, for they were both striking, their affection pure and earnest. We all assumed theyd marry after A-levelsjust a matter of time. Oliver and Emily.
And Olivers faith in that future was as unshakeable as a Scouts pledge. Emily, in turn, never doubted him, as certain as Big Bens chime at midnight on New Years Eve.
I was their form tutor, and I adored them both. Oliver was driven, steady as a compass needle, set on becoming a barrister. He hammered away at history and politics, dead set on Oxford. Emily, meanwhile, was to be the greatest English novelist since DickensOlivers words. She scribbled endless tales of knights and castles, which Oliver always read first. I came second, having taught them literatureand English, naturally.
Her stories had everything: love so fierce the heroine renounced riches, the hero duelling any who dared part them. There were keeps, drawbridges, villainous mothers and tyrannical fathers who, blind to their childrens hearts, forced their own version of happiness upon them. Yet, in the end, the dark enchantments shatteredonly for her or him to perish in the final act. Truth prevailed, but always too late, leaving triumph bittersweet.
Despite these florid sagas, Oliver and I believed in our Emily. Oliver because his heart and eyes seemed grafted to her. Me? Because hidden beneath the ornate prose were flashes of brilliance:
* the brittle husks of last autumns leaves crackled underfoot*
* the monks cowls drifted above the crowd like sugarloaves of sin*
* the door yawned heavily, and the house sank back into morning slumber*
I remember those lines still.
But all things end. School did. Emily won a place at UCL, studying under some luminary whod once shared a pint with Rushdie. She invited me to her workshops twicegilded moments. She wrote with ease, published early, made me proud. *I saw it in her. Nurtured it.*
Olivers pride was hers alone. After each new story, hed burst into my classroom, fidget as I read, urge me to linger on certain lines. Then, eyes sharp with hope, hed ask, *Well?* That single word held all the fervour of Emilys early talesadoration, fear of critique, the breathless faith of youth.
Yet Olivers mother despised Emily. Subtly, relentlessly, she worked to unravel them, though never crudely. She was honeyed poison, offering sweets when youre already sick from sugar. That was her way with me, toocloying, false.
She succeeded. Oliver left for Cambridge. Law. Emily told me first, arriving at school with the hollow gaze of a thwarted witch. *Its temporary*, she insisted. Once he graduated, theyd marry. His going was a blessing, reallyshed landed a book deal, needed to clear her debts.
For a while, it held. They studiedhim in Cambridge, her in London. *Opposite sides of the Thames,* she joked when she visited, though those visits dwindled. Oliver wrote seldom*Cambridge is all tweed and Latin, dreadfully dull.*
Then, a year later, Emily appeared, stiff as parchment. *Im getting married,* she said. To some poet from her course. As if *that* were the obstacle. Her eyes warned me not to pry. I didnt. Life, after all, has its own script.
*Whats left to say?* Another love felled. Another bow to practical wisdom. Another tidy household born. Olivers would follow, no doubt.
Emily vanished. Moved to Cornwall, last I heard. Oliver never returned.
Until yesterday.
Leaving school under a butter-yellow May sun, I spotted himolder, but unmistakable. *Hello, sir. I waited.* A barrister now. Two daughters. Then, quietly: *Emilys husband died. Nine days ago. Shes alone with their girl. Come with me?*
His eyes said all I needed to know.
**Lesson:** Life bends as it pleases. The truest hearts still break.
