15May2025 Dear Diary,
Every year, no matter how many birthdays have passed, each school year seems to retain its coreold friends who keep the circle alive, calling each other, meeting up, holding on to the same familiar rhythm. When a reunion anniversary rolls around, the same familiar faces take charge of the details: the venue, the menu, the programmeall done almost automatically, with a smile and a sense of duty.
When the guest list finally came up for discussion, things got a bit tense. Of course we have to invite the teachers, but what about the rest of the class?
Everyones coming, declared Simon confidently. Except Stephen Gorhamweve had enough of his drunken antics.
Why would Stephen be left out? shouted Emily, the bespectacled girl with the thick frames. Hell be there! Ive spoken to him.
Emily, Violet, the former class monitor, replied quietly, he might get drunk and cause a scene. I saw him last week stumbling home, barely recognised me.
Emily exhaled, a little irritated. Its fine. I know hes preparing for this.
And perhaps for him this meeting matters more than it does for any of us combined, she added, halfsmiling.
***
Stephen had always been different at school. He was gentle, quiet, and considerate, never raising his voice or picking on anyone. He listened well, helped whenever someone needed a hand, and always had his notebooks neat, his handwriting even, his spelling spotless. Physics and maths came easily to him; formulas seemed to whisper their solutions straight into his mind. At most Olympiads he walked away with a diplomanot always first place, but always a respectable result. At assemblies they placed him beside the top students, and when someone put a hand over his heart in praise, it felt less like pride and more like a shy embarrassment.
He dreamed of joining the military academy after Year9. I still remember the openday visit with our form tutor; he came back brimming with excitement, describing the uniform, the drill, the discipline, and how the academy would teach him to be useful. Everyone believed hed make it.
At home, however, things were far from that ideal. His father had died when he was young, and his mother had taken to the bottle. One evening, after a serious binge, she turned up at the finalyear ceremony, wobbling at the back, eyes glazed, hair tangled. When Stephens diploma was handed to him, she suddenly shouted, Well done, Stephen! My son! He stood there, cheeks flushed, hands clenched, feeling like he could sink into the floor. Her sudden praise landed like an unexpected explosionexactly the kind of attention he never wanted.
His plans for the academy fell apart. He feared his younger sister would be taken into care if he left, so he stayed on, took parttime jobs in the evenings, began missing lessons, fell in with the wrong crowd, and everything started to go off course.
***
When the reunion approached, Stephen prepared in his own, awkward way. He borrowed a grey suit two sizes too big but clean, spent ages choosing a shirt, ironing it, checking the buttons. He shaved carefully, brushed his hair into order, hoping to look as decent as possible. He hadnt touched a drink for two days, wanting to be himself for that one night when we would all be together again.
Arriving at The Old Mill on the high street, he hesitated outside, lingering in the shadows where he couldnt be seen. He watched his former classmates greet each other with hugs, flash videos on their phones, joke loudly, and seem to glide through life with ease. He felt a knot of shame and uncertainty, as if one wrong step might shatter the fragile picture of the evening.
After about an hour he summoned the courage and stepped inside.
***
Standing at the doorway, his hair freshly washed but still a little unruly, the illfitting suit hanging on his shoulders, his eyes downcast and shy, he felt exposed. Emily called out, Stephen, over here! This is your seat! He walked over, and the room seemed to come alive with toasts, laughter, and music.
Stephen hardly ate or drank; he simply sat, listened, observed, offering a faint smile now and then. As the night drew to a close, he stood up. His voice trembled, each word a struggle as if years of bottled feelings were 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 glistened, a lump rose in his throat, his shoulders tensed, hands shaking. He looked as vulnerable as a child believing for the first time that he would be accepted exactly as he was.
I Im really grateful sorry if I ever… if I hurt anyone he stammered.
A chorus answered, Of course, Stephen! Were thrilled youre here! It wouldnt have been the same without you! Their rehearsed enthusiasm softened his raw confession just enough: smiles, pats on the back, loud assurances. It felt less like genuine compassion and more like polite social nicetya thin veneer of kindness that never dug deeper. The hypocrisy was pure: warm words, sliding eyes, caring on display.
Emily watched it all, hearing in her head, You didnt really want him there Yet the most important thingthankfullyStephen didnt see the doubt. He believed their words because he had no reason to question them.
He thanked them, bowed a little, and was among the first to leave. He slipped out of the hall quietly, without farewells, without waiting, without a backward glance.
Long after hed gone, the rest of us kept laughing, swapping stories about where we worked, how life was treating us, who had met whom The chatter, the music, the clink of glasses continued.
***
Late that night, as I walked home, I saw Stephen sitting on a bench in the courtyard of the apartment block, under a dim streetlamp. He was slumped, already drunk, eyes glassy, hands resting on his knees. He didnt recognise me.
I crouched down, my heart tightening. Why did you drink, Stephen? You held yourself together tonight, you were yourself why now? I whispered.
I looked at the dark yard, the empty windows, the lone lamp, and thought, How many lives break silently because theres no steady hand, no shoulder, no kind word nearby? If someone had been there, would Stephen be sitting here now, in that illfitting suit, drunk and alone?
The question hung in the night air, unanswered, as the quiet of the street wrapped around us.
