Emily had always been the kind of girl people depended on. She didn't volunteer for that role—it just… happened.
In the Hartley household, mornings didn't begin until she moved. Her mum, still recovering from a slipped disc, waited quietly for her tea. Her little sister Lucy wandered the kitchen asking where her socks were. Her younger brother Harry needed reminding—again—that PE day meant trainers, not boots.
No one really thanked her. They just assumed she'd handle it. And she did.
She was halfway through buttering toast when her phone buzzed.
Ben: "Didn't sleep again. Dad was going off about the business all night. I swear, I'm losing it."
Ben: "Wish I was anywhere but here."
Emily stared at the message for a few seconds before replying.
Emily: "Breathe. You're doing better than you think. Call me later?"
Ben: "Yeah… I might come by. You make it easier."
He always said that. And once, those words meant everything. But lately, they felt like something heavier—like a hand reaching for her when hers were already full.
They'd met two years ago. Sixth form. It was never meant to be serious. They were just friends at first—Ben was the kind who sat in the back row, never raised his hand, and made sarcastic comments under his breath. Emily was focused, sharp, halfway drowning in books already.
They bonded over something stupid—forgotten lunch sandwiches, she thought—and from there, things just grew. He was warm, surprisingly thoughtful, and funny in a quiet, awkward way. He listened, really listened, like she was the only voice in a crowded room.
She fell first. He followed not long after.
They were never loud about it. No dramatic posts or matching phone cases. Just soft smiles in the library, a shared bag of crisps after class, him waiting outside her lectures on cold evenings with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
But then came the weight.
Ben had never been great in school. Always a decent lad, but easily distracted, a bit lost, especially after his parents started fighting more often. He tried jobs here and there after sixth form—delivery work, shifts in his uncle's shop—but nothing stuck. He hated feeling useless.
Now, finally, he'd started working with his dad in the family's hardware business. It was hard work, but it gave him purpose. Still, the pressure at home hadn't changed.
And when things got too much—he turned to Emily.
He always turned to Emily.
It was around last winter when they had their worst fight.
He'd been distant, moody. She tried to talk to him after a long day of hospital placement. She was exhausted, and he snapped.
"You don't get it, Em. You've got your life sorted—med school, your perfect family, always knowing what you're doing. I'm stuck. You don't understand what it's like to be… nothing."
She hadn't expected that. All she'd wanted was to be heard—for once.
She left in silence, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying.
They didn't speak for three days. Then a week. He finally showed up at her door, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes tired.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I was angry. I felt like everything was falling apart, and I took it out on you. I can't lose you."
She forgave him. She always did. But something had changed in her. She couldn't say what, exactly. Maybe a layer of trust had been scratched too deep.
Now, things were better—mostly. The fights didn't last longer than a few days anymore. And when he said he couldn't live without her, she believed him.
But it was still hard. She was in her second year of medicine now—long nights, dense textbooks, early clinical placements. Sometimes she didn't even know how she was still standing.
And when she was too quiet or distracted, Ben would grow restless. Accuse her of drifting away.
What he didn't realise was—she wasn't drifting.
She was drowning.
⸻
That evening, Emily sat on her bed with her anatomy notes spread in front of her. Her old notebook was open to one side—half-filled with stories she'd once written about love. The kind where someone showed up for you. The kind where the girl didn't always have to be the strong one.
She remembered thinking: That's the kind of love I want.
Then her mum called out from downstairs, "Em, Mrs Green said she saw you walking home yesterday. Told me you looked tired. She asked if everything was alright."
Emily blinked. Her pen stilled.
No one had asked her that in weeks
And just like that, a crack formed in the part of her that always held everything together.