Anya and Jack had been mates since primary school, growing up on the same street in Manchester, sharing classes and walking home together. For the first two years, Jack’s nan would pick them up, since Anya’s mum worked shifts and her dad was always away on business trips.
“Anya love, come round ours for tea, I’ve made loads,” Nan would offer every day.
Anya would brace herself as they neared the house, hoping Nan wouldn’t forget to ask. She loved tucking into hearty stews, bangers and mash, or spaghetti on toast.
“What, didn’t you eat again? Who d’you think I’m cooking for? Like you don’t get fed at home,” Mum would scold later, spotting the untouched dinner in the fridge.
Anya would shrug—eating alone was boring, and she couldn’t say no to Nan. But by Year 3, they switched to afternoons, and Nan stopped inviting her. Mum was home by then anyway. Soon, Nan stopped meeting them altogether.
“Seriously? I’m not a kid. No one gets picked up anymore—just me. It’s embarrassing,” Jack snapped when Anya asked why Nan didn’t come.
She noticed him slipping off without her, rushing ahead or walking with the lads, ignoring her trailing behind. At school, he kept his distance—blaming the teasing about them being “boyfriend and girlfriend.” Anya sulked, refusing to lend him homework, chin tilted high.
By GCSEs, most lads started dating. Jack eased up, walking home with her again, popping round to copy her notes. Then one day, Anya came home to Mum sobbing.
“Dad left. Ran off with someone else. Hope he rots.”
Mum shut down after that—crying or staring blankly. Home turned miserable. Meanwhile, Jack’s nan got poorly, forgetting meals, even turning on the hob and wandering off. He had to watch her after school till his parents got back. They only saw each other in class now.
When A-levels loomed, everyone debated uni plans. Anya knew they couldn’t afford it, so she enrolled in college. Jack got into uni up in London.
They drifted, exchanging brief hellos if they bumped into each other, then just nods. Sometimes she’d spot him with a girlfriend, pretending not to see her. It stung—she fancied him, though she couldn’t say if it was love or just friendship.
At college, a new tutor arrived—Mr. Thompson, fresh out of teacher training, all awkward in thick-rimmed glasses. One rainy April day, Anya got caught without an umbrella.
“Need a lift?” he asked, shuffling under his brolly.
She hesitated but let him drive her in his beat-up Fiesta. He took off the glasses at the wheel.
“Wait—you don’t need those?”
“Just for show,” he admitted with a wink. “Don’t tell anyone, yeah?”
He wasn’t bad-looking without them.
Over time, he gave her more lifts, “coincidentally” waiting after class. They even went for ice cream. She liked the attention—her mates were dead jealous.
One Sunday, he turned up with flowers and chocolates. Over tea, Mum grilled him about his job, his degree. Anya stayed quiet.
“I’m here to offer Anya a teaching role next term,” he said finally.
Mum lit up. “Anya, did you hear—?”
“I don’t want to teach.” She met his eye.
Flustered, he adjusted imaginary glasses. “Actually… Irene, I came to ask for Anya’s hand.”
Mum gaped. Anya thought, *A ring box would’ve been nice. Couldn’t he make it romantic?*
She said she’d think about it.
“You could do worse,” Mum mused after he left. “Car, flat…”
But Anya wasn’t marrying some clumsy sod who couldn’t even propose properly. Then Mum mentioned Jack was back from London—for good.
When Mr. Thompson returned with the same dull chocolates a week later, Anya said yes. No ring box again.
“Love fades,” Mum sighed. “A flat doesn’t.”
The wedding was dull. Marriage duller—him prepping lessons, no dates, no chats. No spark in bed either. Just two tracks running side by side, never meeting.
Visiting Mum one day, Anya found Dad there. Mum blushed like a teenager. “We’re giving it another go.”
Anya walked home near tears. They had love. She had… predictability.
At dinner, she snapped. “I want out.”
Jack’s voice hit her like sunshine when she bumped into him months later, free and feather-light.
They laughed, met up weekends, but he never asked *the* question.
New Year’s Eve, Mum and Dad skipped off to a lodge. Anya dressed up—just in case—ignoring the phone.
Midnight neared. She’d gulped two glasses of fizz when the doorbell rang.
Jack stood there, flowers and champagne in hand.
“Did Mum call you—?”
“Happy New Year,” he murmured, pulling her close as Big Ben chimed.
Later, breathless: “Marry me?” He flicked open a ring box.
Anya grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”
“Was that a yes—?”
She kissed him again as fireworks boomed outside.
