Tommy
By mid-November, the days had started turning colder. The air had that heavy, sea-salt chill that sank into your coat no matter how tightly you wrapped it. The mornings were darker too, the light slow to rise, the streets empty except for gulls crying somewhere overhead.
Emma and I still walked together every morning, but something had shifted. I couldn't have said exactly what it was — maybe the way she sometimes kept her eyes on the ground, or how she let go of my hand a little sooner before we reached the college gates.
It wasn't that she was distant exactly. She still smiled, still met me every morning like always. But there was a quietness now, something I couldn't reach.
I told myself it was just the new term, or the stress of assignments, or the winter blues creeping in early. Everyone got tired. Everyone needed space. But when I reached for her hand and she hesitated — just a heartbeat too long — it hit somewhere deep.
Lucy had started sitting beside me in class more often.
It wasn't that I minded. She was funny and talkative, easy to be around. But she had this way of leaning close when she spoke, of touching my arm when she laughed, of finding excuses to linger after lessons ended.
"You really don't get it, do you?" she said one day as we packed up.
"Get what?"
She smiled, that teasing kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Never mind."
I frowned, confused, but she just shouldered her bag and walked off, her perfume hanging faintly in the air.
I didn't think much of it — Lucy was just friendly, that was all. But then she started showing up in the cafeteria when she knew I'd be there, or offering to share her notes, or saying she wanted to see a band playing in town that weekend.
Each time, I turned her down "I've got plans," or "I'm seeing Emma." It wasn't hard to say. It was just strange how she always smiled like she knew something I didn't.
By the time lunch rolled around that Friday, the benches where Emma and I usually sat were empty. I checked the courtyard twice, then the cafeteria, then the path by the kitchens.
When I finally found her, she was inside the college kitchen, hair tied back, her apron dusted with flour. She didn't notice me at first — she was bent over a mixing bowl, focused, the light catching on the strands of hair that had fallen loose.
"Hey," I said, leaning against the doorway.
She looked up, startled, then smiled quickly; the kind of smile that didn't really spread across her face.
"Oh, hey. I didn't realise it was lunchtime already."
"I missed you at the bench," I said lightly. "Thought I'd been stood up."
She wiped her hands on her apron. "Sorry, I just wanted to get this recipe right before class starts again."
I stepped closer, peering into the bowl. "What is it?"
"Fruit cake," she said, voice soft. "I think I almost have it."
"It smells amazing."
She smiled, but her eyes were already drifting back to her work.
I watched her for a moment — the careful movements, the focus in her face, the way she seemed both here and somewhere else entirely.
"Do you want to grab lunch?" I asked finally.
"Maybe tomorrow," she said. "I just… want to get this right today."
"Sure," I said, but it came out quieter than I meant.
The walk home that evening felt longer. She was tired — I could see it in the way her shoulders slumped, the way she tucked her hands in her pockets instead of reaching for mine.
I tried to make her laugh, tried to tell her about something funny I'd heard last week, another corny joke, but her smile barely flickered.
When we reached her house, she turned to me, gave a small wave, and said, "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
No kiss this time. Just that quiet smile and the sound of the latch clicking behind her.
Emma
It wasn't that I didn't want to see him.
If anything, it was the opposite.
The thought of Tommy; his steadiness, his kindness, the way he looked at me like I was made of something stronger than I felt, had always been what kept me steady. But lately, whenever he smiled at me, all I could think about was how much I didn't deserve it.
He'd been through enough because of me. He shouldn't have had to choose between me and his family. He should've been out with his mates, or focusing on college, or laughing about something ordinary. Not checking if I was okay. Not holding someone who still flinched at sudden noises.
Lucy. Her name had come up once or twice; casual, harmless, part of a story about class or an assignment. I'd laughed, asked a question or two, pretending it didn't sting that he never mentioned her without that faint smile on his face.
I wasn't jealous, not exactly. I just kept thinking that she probably wasn't broken in the way I was. She probably didn't freeze when someone said a name in the hallway.
So I started spending lunchtimes in the kitchen. It wasn't to avoid him, not at first. It was just easier. Safer. The ovens hummed quietly, the smell of sugar filled the air and nobody asked questions if you kept your head down and worked.
It became my refuge; a place where I didn't have to talk, where I could measure and stir and bake until everything else faded.
But every time I heard his voice in the corridor, every time I saw him waiting for me by the gate, my stomach twisted with guilt.
He didn't deserve to carry my silences.
Later that week, he asked me out.
It was late afternoon; we'd just finished classes. I met him by the gate, the world small and grey around us.
"Hey," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was thinking — maybe we could go out on Saturday? You know, go see a film or something?"
For a moment, I almost said yes. I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. But my throat tightened just thinking about it.
"I can't," I said finally. "I've got some work to finish."
He looked disappointed, but he tried to hide it. "Okay. Another time maybe."
"Yeah," I said softly. "Another time."
He smiled a little, but his eyes said something else; confusion maybe, or hurt. I hated myself for doing that to him.
When he leaned forward slightly, I took a half-step back without meaning to. It wasn't fear, not of him, but the old reflex that still hadn't quite left me. He noticed. I saw the flicker in his expression before he looked away.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I whispered.
He nodded, then walked off, his shoulders tight beneath his jacket.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay awake listening to the rain against the window, the echo of his voice replaying in my head. Maybe we could go out… another time maybe.
He deserved better than this half-version of me, this quiet girl who used to laugh easily, but now measured every word, every touch.
I turned over, pressing my face into the pillow, breathing in the faint scent of cake that clung to my hair. I wished I could go back; to last summer when everything felt simple and the world hadn't yet bent out of shape.
But nothing comes back. Not really.
Tommy
I couldn't shake the feeling that something was slipping between us.
It was little things; the way she laughed less, how her replies came slower, how she started saying I'm fine in that soft, distant tone that didn't sound fine at all.
I tried to tell myself it was just college stress, or family stuff, or maybe she needed a bit of time to herself. But every time I looked at her, really looked, I saw the same shadow I'd seen once before; the one she carried when everything had fallen apart.
I didn't know how to reach her this time.
Lucy caught me in the hallway the next morning, bright-eyed and grinning. "You're quiet lately, you know that?"
"Just tired," I said.
"Well, if you ever need cheering up…" She leaned in slightly, her voice playful. "You know where to find me."
I smiled weakly, stepping back. "Thanks, but I'm good."
Her grin faltered, but only for a second. "Suit yourself," she said lightly, and walked off.
As I watched her go, all I could think about was Emma — the way she used to reach for my hand without thinking, the sound of her laughter echoing and lifting me up.
Now she barely looked at me.
And the worst part wasn't the distance. It was that I didn't know how to fix it without pushing her further away.
That night, I went for a walk after getting home as I couldn't sit down. The wind was sharp, rattling the street signs, carrying the faint smell of the sea. I stood outside her house and saw her light still on upstairs, a soft glow behind the curtains.
For a moment, I almost went to the door. Almost knocked. Almost asked her what was wrong, what had changed.
But I didn't.
Instead, I stood there on the pavement, watching her shadow move across the room, my breath misting in the cold.
Then I turned and walked on, the streetlights stretching long and lonely ahead of me.
And for the first time, the walk home didn't feel easy.