**Diary Entry**
Astonishing thing.
“Your Honour, I waive any financial claims against the defendant,” Thomas said quietly. A murmur of confusion rippled through the courtroom.
The judge, unfazed by most things, raised an eyebrow.
“Mr. Collins, you understand this wont affect the verdict but will forfeit your right to compensation?”
“I do.”
Catherine Elizabethor “Miss Whitmore,” as her colleagues called her despite her youthcontinued typing without a flicker of emotion. After five years in this job, shed stopped being surprised by human pettiness or foolishness. Her duty was to record it all, impassive as a train conductor hauling carriages of strangers dramas.
The case against Lydia H. was the sort the press loved. Another con artist, cleverly swindling “suitors” on dating sites. Four men, none of whom had ever met her, sent significant sums to her account. Not one made it to a first date. To one, she spun a tale of family in a car crash. To another, a vindictive ex-husband taking everything down to the teaspoons. A third heard about a sick child
“Nothing new here,” thought Cathy, organising the case files. Four grown men, seemingly successful, playing the white knightbelieving money could rescue a damsel and buy true love. In reality, theyd been messaging a married mother of three.
Now they were all here: the defendant, the plaintiffs. Three were coiled springs of bitterness, demanding repayment, their words laced with venom. They werent wrong. The law was on their side. Cathy mechanically noted the familiar phrases: “emotional distress,” “misrepresentation,” “fraudulent intent.”
One plaintiff, Thomas Collins, sat apart. No aggression, no pity in his posture. When he waived his claim, the room stilled. One “suitor” spun around, incredulous:
“Have you lost your mind? She played you like the rest of us! That money probably bought her husband a new phone!”
Thomas met his gaze with quiet sadness.
“I know. But she has three children. Let the money go to them. I dont need it back.”
Cathy looked up, startled. Generosity was rare in these walls. She studied his handsa welders, calloused and clasped calmly on his kneesand his eyes, weary but unhardened. In a world where everyone fought for scraps, hed simply let go.
After the hearing, a plaintiffs lawyer shook his head.
“That fourth ones a proper romantic. Naive as a child.”
Usually silent, Cathy countered,
“Thats not naivety. Its strength. The kind money cant buy.”
The room fell quiet. Even she was surprised by her own words.
In later sessions, she caught herself watching himhow he listened intently, how his gaze lingered on the window, as if searching the grey sky for answers only he cared to ask.
On the final day, as the verdict was read and the crowd dispersed, he lingered in the corridor, disoriented. Cathy stepped out.
“Which way are you headed?” she asked, all business.
“Nowhere in particular,” he smiled. “Got turned around in your maze.”
“Exits that way.” She nodded.
“Cheers.”
Hed taken a few steps when she called after him.
“Thomas?”
He turned, surprised.
“You were right,” she said, voice wavering. “About the children. That was decent of you.”
He studied her a moment.
“Yknow, Catherine” He hesitated over her name.
“Cathy,” she offered.
“Cathy. Kindness is rare, in here or out. Thanks for noticing.”
He left. She watched him go, feeling her long-dormant pulse quicken.
What happened next? Rain. A downpour as Thomas stepped outside. He paused under the awning, debating whether to sprint for the bus stop.
Behind him, a voice:
“Weve a government-issue brolly. Meant for documents, but I reckon itll do for a decent bloke.”
Cathy stood there, holding a black umbrella, something like uncertainty in her eyes.
“Dont want to trouble you,” he said.
“My shifts over. Im walking to the park. If youre going that way”
They walked side by side beneath the umbrella, careful not to touch. The silence was comfortable.
“You always stick up for plaintiffs like that?” he finally asked.
“Never,” she admitted. “Youre the first who acted illogically. It got to me.”
“Suppose thats daft.”
“Its rare. Rare things matter.”
At the park, the rain eased to a drizzle.
“Fancy a walk?” he asked. “If youve time.”
She hesitated only a second. *”Breach of protocol, Miss Whitmore,”* she chided herselfbut nodded. Thomas gazed at the clearing sky. She gave him space.
“First time thiss happened,” he said suddenly. “Usually, people think Im odd.”
“Because you didnt turn bitter,” she murmured. “These days, thats eccentric.”
He eyed her.
“And you? Think Im cracked?”
“I think youre real,” she settled on. “In my line of work, thats priceless.”
After a pause, he asked,
“Want to know why? Why I fell for it?”
She nodded.
He sighed, gaze distant, then spoke calmly, as if recounting someone elses story:
“Started and ended at school. Her name was Lily. What I felt wasnt just loveshe was everything. Light, beauty, the unattainable. We were *that* couple. Carried her books, danced at prom I was certain itd last. Even convinced others. We were the golden pair.
“Then she left for uni in London, married a classmate. Sent me a postcardjust three words: *Sorry. Its better.*
“Everything crumbled. Didnt drink, didnt rage. Just went numb. Became a weldergood job for hiding behind a mask, drowning thoughts in noise. Built walls around my heart, but inside, that daft boy still believed in one true love.
“When I saw *her* photo onlinethe con artistsomething woke in me. She looked like Lily. But it was the caption: *Still believe in love.* Pathetic, right? I messaged her. And she wrote back all the things Id ached to hearforever love, loyalty, something *real.* Key to my locked-up heart. Wanted to believe so badly, I ignored the red flags. Didnt fall for *her* lies. Fell for the echo of my own dream. Needed proof that love like mine wasnt a joke.
“Funny thing? The trial freed me. First, it stung. Then, seeing herjust a scared, pitiful womanthe illusion shattered. Lilys ghost finally let go. That money? Payment for exorcism. Steep, but effective.”
He fell silent, awaiting judgment. Cathy wordlessly covered his hand with herswarm, steady.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said softly. “Now I understand. Youre not odd. Youre true to yourself.”
—
At work, Cathy was “Miss Whitmore” for a reasonstrict, reserved, ruthlessly professional. No personal life to speak of. When colleagues spotted her with Thomaswaiting for her after hourseyebrows rose.
Judge Margaret, fifty-something with a stare that could halt crime mid-sentence, broke the silence first:
“Well, colour me shocked. Thought Miss Whitmore had a filing cabinet for a heart. Now lookromancing the noble plaintiff.”
Her colleague, Judge Ian, smirked, rubbing his neck.
“With his naivety, hes more defendant for lacking self-preservation. Miss Whitmores reforming him, is she?”
“Ian, enough,” Margaret chided, though her lips twitched. “Mans a hard worker. And what he did took principles over pounds. Rare in our line.”
In the smoking area, solicitor Stanley spread his hands.
“Didnt peg our courtroom for a rom-com set.”
Cathy changed. Still professional, but softer. Sometimes she smiled at her phone. Wore a delicate silver chain she hadnt before.
Behind her back, the office splitcynics versus romantics.
The men made grim predictions: “Prep for wedding invites, lads. Well be witnesses. Yes, Your Honour, I saw the defendantsorry, *secretary*steal the plaintiffs heart.”
The women, especially younger ones, swooned: “Its *beautiful.* Miss Whitmore, so stern, so untouchableand him, wounded but kind. And handsome! Straight out of a novel!”
Accounts manager Valerie scowled.
“Oh, belt up. Half of youve forgotten what sincerity looks like. A good mans rarer than hens teeth. Cathys clever. Let her have this.”
One morning, over coffee, Ian prodded with faux innocence:
“Miss Whitmore, hows your *gallant rescuer*? Filed any more charitable lawsuits?”
The room held its breath.
Cathy sipped her coffee, set it down, and levelled him with a look.
“Judge Harrison, if youre so interested in closed-case plaintiffs, I can grant full archive access. Fancy revisiting Case No. 3-452/18? Or 2-187/19? *Fascinating* characters there too.”
Dead silence. Ian choked on his brew. He got the messageCathy had processed *his* cases, knew things hed rather keep buried.
“No-no, Cathy, I just”
“Appreciate the concern,” she said sweetly. “But my private life isnt up for judicial review. *Yet.*”
Open jabs ceased after that, replaced by wary respect. The clincher came when Thomas dropped her off one morning in his modest but tidy car. He stepped out to open her door, adjusting her coat collar in farewelljust a gesture, but so tender, it silenced the last doubters.
That day, Margaret pulled her aside.
“Hes good, Cathy. It shows. Hold onto him.”
The only verdict Miss Whitmore accepted without protest. Just a nod:
“Thank you, Margaret. I know.”
The gossip died. Theyd grasped the truththeir unflappable secretary, keeper of order and records, had passed her own sentence: *”Pardoned. To love. To be happy.”* And thered be no appeal.
**Lesson Learned:**
The worlds full of noisecynicism, greed, the grind of getting by. But sometimes, if youre quiet enough, youll hear it: the stubborn heartbeat of something real. And when you do, for Gods sake, dont let go.
