Rosie was just finishing her evening snack—a glass of milk and a biscuit—when her phone rang. She rarely cooked for herself, surviving on coffee in the mornings, grabbing lunch at a café near work, and settling for something quick like tea and biscuits if she was peckish. Weekends were spent at her parents’ house, where her mum always packed her off with containers of food. Refusing would’ve been like declaring war.
The ringtone—an annoyingly chirpy tune she’d been meaning to change—cut through the flat. It drilled into her skull until she finally gave in, leaving her glass on the counter to answer. An unknown number. But if someone was calling this persistently, it had to be important.
“Hello,” came a painfully familiar voice. Years had passed, but she recognised it instantly. *Hang up*, her mind hissed.
“Please don’t,” the voice rushed on, as if reading her thoughts. “I need to talk to you.”
Rosie stayed silent, waiting.
“I’ve got no one else to turn to. Only you can help me. Give me your address—I’ll come over. Please, it’s important.”
Something was wrong. Katie wouldn’t call out of the blue. Once, they’d been inseparable. A different lifetime.
“Fine, I’ll text it,” Rosie said and hung up.
Her heart hammered. Why now? As she typed her address, her fingers trembled. Katie replied instantly: *Be there soon.*
Rosie washed her glass and sat at the table, trying to steady herself.
For years, she’d pushed away every thought of Katie—convinced she’d moved on. But one call had unleashed a flood of memories, crashing over her like a rockslide.
***
Rosie’s mum loved the film *The School Waltz*. The country that made it had long since fallen apart, but the film lived on, still relevant. Mum named her after the heroine, and every time Rosie introduced herself, someone would mention the film.
Unlike the actress who played the lead, Rosie wasn’t striking. Blonde hair, pale lashes, small grey eyes. Her figure, too, was a sore point—her chest so small she’d agonised over it. “It’ll come,” Mum had assured her.
Katie, though, was *all* chest—high, perky, impossible to miss. Boys’ stares stuck to her like glue.
Every summer, Rosie was sent to the countryside to stay with Granny. The village had mostly become holiday homes, with only four year-round residents: Granny, old Nelly next door, and two elderly couples.
Nelly’s grandson, Tom, visited every summer, and Rosie spent those months with him. Then, one year, everything changed. She saw him—not as the boy she’d played with, but as a *boy*, tall and lean, and suddenly she couldn’t fling herself at him like before.
Tom didn’t seem to notice, calling her down to the river like always.
They chatted the whole walk, but when they got there, Rosie hesitated. She waited until he’d waded in, then turned her back, yanked her dress over her head, and splashed in before he could see how flat she was.
It never grew, no matter what Mum had promised.
At summer’s end, they left without swapping addresses or numbers—as if country life and city life existed in separate worlds.
The summer before their final school year, Tom didn’t come. “Gone south with his mum,” Nelly said. Bored, Rosie invited Katie instead. Katie, who had no grandparents, no countryside, jumped at the chance.
Then, two weeks in, Tom showed up. Taller, broader, dark lashes framing hazel eyes—Rosie envied them instantly. He’d gone from boy to *handsome*.
And suddenly, she regretted inviting Katie.
Because the second Katie saw him, she marched right over.
That night, whispering in bed, Katie asked, “Ever kissed him?”
“God, no—we’ve known each other since we were kids,” Rosie scoffed.
She’d regret those words.
From then on, it was the three of them—and Rosie was the odd one out. For the first time, she counted the days until summer ended.
Tom was forgotten for a year, and she and Katie stayed close. But after school, Rosie skipped the countryside trip. Granny died that winter. Would she *ever* see Tom again? Too late now—she couldn’t exactly ask her parents for Nelly’s number.
Seeing Katie became rarer, too—different unis, different lives. And then Katie invited her to a wedding.
“*What?* Already? Did your mum even *agree*?” Rosie pressed.
“She doesn’t have a choice,” Katie grinned. “You’ll be my bridesmaid?”
The wedding was just before New Year’s.
Rosie nearly choked when she saw Tom at her door. She wanted to wake up, run, *die*—anything to avoid seeing the way they looked at each other.
But she was the bridesmaid. She couldn’t bail.
Katie *could’ve* warned her.
In every wedding photo, Rosie looked miserable—the only guest not smiling. She slipped out halfway through.
Katie never apologised. After all, Rosie *had* said they were just friends. Calls dwindled after Katie had a baby, and their lives split for good. Rosie forbade herself from thinking of either of them.
But dating never worked. Every guy got measured against Tom.
***
How long had it been? Ten years? Mum said Nelly had died, the house sold to strangers.
And now this call.
Katie arrived looking *nothing* like herself. Ten years had hollowed her out—pale, sunken, dark circles bruising her eyes.
“Hello. Changed much?” Katie stepped inside without waiting.
“Tea?” Rosie offered, flicking the kettle on.
“You look exactly the same,” Katie said. “I’m dying.”
Rosie froze.
“Cancer. They want to operate, but I won’t survive it. Look after my son when I’m gone.”
“Katie, don’t—”
“Alex is nine. Tom can’t do it alone.”
“What about—”
“His mum’s remarried. Mine’s useless—you know that. Rosie, *please*. There’s no one else.”
“But I—I’ve no kids, I wouldn’t know how—”
The kettle boiled, and Rosie seized the excuse to turn away, hiding the tears.
Katie left untouched tea on the table.
“Don’t pity me,” she warned at the door.
A week passed. Two. No calls. Rosie almost rang the hospital a dozen times but remembered Katie’s glare. *No news is good news*, she told herself.
Then Tom called.
Katie had died in the night.
Rosie went straight over. Tom sat blank-faced, staring at the wall. Alex was on the floor, glued to the telly. The flat reeked of misery.
“Katie asked… How can I help?” Rosie said.
“Take Alex for the funeral,” Tom muttered.
“I’m *not* going!” Alex snapped. Rosie realised they’d already fought about this.
“Let him say goodbye,” she said firmly.
Tom just stared.
“Have you eaten?” Rosie marched to the kitchen. The fridge was empty. She scrounged potatoes, fried them, found pickles under the sink. Alex wolfed it down. Tom barely touched his plate.
“Tom, you’ve got to hold it together. For Alex.”
Tom just groaned, “Why? I loved her so much…”
Rosie stayed the night when Alex begged her not to leave. She heard Tom pacing, sighing.
But she felt nothing for him now—just pity. He wasn’t hers. He never had been.
She helped with the funeral, the wake. Alex clung to her.
Tom started drinking. Heavy. Every visit, Rosie found him wasted.
One day, she snapped.
“Your grief isn’t just *yours*! Alex lost his *mum*! I can’t watch this anymore—*sort yourself out!*” She slammed the door.
Alex called that evening. Tom was drunk again.
Six months passed. Then Alex mentioned a new woman in Tom’s life.
“She’s *awful*. Rosie… what if he marries her? I don’t *want* her. I’d rather it was you.”
“Your dad and I are just friends,” she said gently.
Alex started staying with Rosie more. Tom barely noticed.
Spring came. Rosie took Alex to the countryside. Her parents were there—barbecue lit. The new neighbour, Victor, a solid, quiet man in his forties, wandered over at the smell.
Rosie’s dad approved. *This* was the kind of man she needed, not a wreck like Tom.
Alex grinned. “He *likes* you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“He asked what you’d say if he proposed.”
Rosie swatted at him, laughing.
Victor did propose. She said yes.
A year later, TomA year later, Tom died from bad whiskey, drunk with his latest girlfriend, and Alex moved in with Rosie and Victor for good, leaving the past—and its ghosts—finally behind them.
