The Beat of a Heart
“Oliver, there’s no need for you to go to the branch office yourself. Let Emily take the documents,” the director said, sounding displeased.
“Sorry, but I’d rather go myself. It’s my hometown. I haven’t been back in years.”
“Are your parents still there?” the director asked, softening slightly.
“No. I moved my mother here, but…”
“I understand,” the director interrupted. “Hometown roots run deep. Fine, go ahead. But we’ve got an important day tomorrow—will you make it back in time?”
“Don’t worry,” Oliver promised. “Thank you.”
The director waved a hand, signaling the conversation was over.
Oliver stepped into his office, cleared his desk of paperwork, shut down his computer, grabbed the folder of documents, and left, locking the door behind him. He left the key with the security guard downstairs.
He didn’t stop home. From the car, he called his mother, asked how she was feeling, and warned her he wouldn’t drop by—he had an important meeting. He didn’t mention he was going back to their hometown. She’d only fret, and with her heart condition, it wasn’t worth it.
“Alright, Mum, I’ve got to go. Call me if you need anything.” Oliver pocketed his phone and turned the key in the ignition.
On his way out of the city, he stopped at a petrol station to fill up, grabbed a coffee and a couple of sausage rolls, deciding not to pause again. He needed to hand over the documents before the workday ended. Still, he could call ahead—ask the partners to wait for him.
He had no plans to visit any old friends. They’d all moved away. He just wanted to see the town where he’d grown up. Oliver switched on the radio, and the car filled with the sound of a popular hit. He took a sip of the hot coffee.
***
After his father died, his mother’s health began to decline. Tests revealed heart trouble. Oliver urged her to move closer to him in the city—better doctors, better care. But she refused outright. He was a grown man; he needed to build his own life, and she didn’t want to be in the way. Still, she only grew worse.
Eventually, he convinced her to sell the house. He added some of his own savings and bought her a small flat near his. After that, he never returned to his hometown, though he often thought about it.
Could anyone forget their first love? Maybe she no longer lived there, but the town remained—the same streets, the same house where he’d stood beneath her window, aching with unrequited love. Just the memory of Charlotte still made his heart race. He’d never felt that way about anyone else. It was as if he’d left his heart behind in that town forever.
Back in school, he hadn’t paid much attention to Charlotte, a quiet girl who blended in with all the others. Not until their final year. After summer break, she returned changed—older, prettier, different. And Oliver felt his heart thud in his chest for the first time.
From then on, all he thought about was Charlotte. He counted the days until New Year’s Eve—the school dance. He’d ask her for a slow dance, finally tell her how he felt. When the day came, the gym was decked with a towering Christmas tree. The younger kids had their celebration earlier, leaving the hall free for the seniors.
After the usual performances, the music started. Oliver missed his chance during the first slow song, too nervous to approach her.
As the night wound down, only upbeat pop songs played. His window was closing. He stood by the wall, biting his lip. Then, a slow melody began, and the dance floor emptied.
Oliver took a deep breath. Now or never. He pushed off and rushed toward the window where Charlotte sat with her friends, desperate to beat any competition.
His heart hammered so hard his vision blurred. For a moment, he thought he might faint. He couldn’t even speak. Breathless, he held out a hand to Charlotte, desperation in his eyes.
She exchanged glances with her friends—then unexpectedly smiled at him. In the middle of the gym, under the lights, Oliver awkwardly placed a hand on her waist. She rested hers on his shoulders, and they swayed in place, taking tiny steps.
His legs felt stiff, his whole body locked with nerves. Other couples might have been dancing nearby, but he saw nothing, heard nothing. His heart pounded in his throat, his head buzzing.
Charlotte’s lips, painted a soft pink, smelled of strawberries. For years after, that scent brought back the school dance.
Then the music cut off. Charlotte pulled away sharply and rejoined her friends. She whispered something, and they burst into laughter, glancing his way. Oliver flushed and bolted from the hall.
A few months later, on the eve of her birthday, Oliver waited in his room until his parents went to sleep. Once he heard his father snoring, he slipped out, dressed quickly, and grabbed a can of paint and a brush from under the bathroom sink. On the pavement beneath Charlotte’s window, he wrote in large letters: *HAPPY BIRTHDAY!* Below, he scrawled two initials: *O.W.* His name—Oliver White. But to him, they stood for *With Love.*
At school, he waited, hoping she’d mention it, tell her friends. But Charlotte never so much as looked at him. At break, she invited a few classmates to her birthday party—everyone but him.
Confused, he skipped going home after school and wandered into her neighborhood. His heart sank when he saw the words had blurred into a shapeless stain. Overnight rain had washed away the water-based paint. Charlotte never even knew.
That evening, he lingered outside her house. Music and laughter drifted from her open window. Someone stepped onto the balcony, flicked a lighter—Oliver turned and left.
At graduation, he tried one last time. Approached her, asked for a dance.
“I don’t dance,” she said, turning away.
“I’m leaving for uni soon… Charlotte, I love you,” he croaked.
She spun back to face him.
“Well, I don’t love *you*.” Then she walked off.
Heartbroken, he drank too much, felt ill, and went home early. He moved to the city for university and never went back during term. Once, on winter break, he spotted Charlotte arm-in-arm with another man. He locked himself inside until he could return to campus.
Later, he heard from an old classmate that she’d married. He tried to forget her, dated other women—but never felt the same way again.
***
Lost in memories, Oliver barely noticed arriving in town. He handed over the documents.
“Need a hotel?” his contact asked.
“No, just a quick meal, then I’ll head back,” Oliver said.
The man smirked. “Somewhere nice, then. Let me take you to a proper restaurant.”
Oliver agreed. He’d grown up here, but as a kid, he’d never set foot in a restaurant. The place was elegant—crystal chandeliers, blindingly white tablecloths.
Before they could sit, a waitress appeared. Her white blouse strained over her figure, her black skirt tight. Charlotte looked different—but Oliver knew her instantly.
He skipped the wine, ordered the best steak and a salad. Fifteen minutes later, she returned with their food. Oliver glanced at his companion—the man couldn’t take his eyes off her.
*Why does she parade herself like this in front of every man here?* Oliver felt nothing but irritation. His heart didn’t race like it used to.
Later, he ordered coffee. His contact checked his watch impatiently.
“You go ahead. Your family’s probably waiting. I’ll stay a bit longer, then drive back,” Oliver said.
The man left, relieved.
A few minutes later, Charlotte returned.
“Hello. I didn’t recognize you at first—you’ve changed. More coffee?”
“No. Already overcaffeinated. Sit with me.”
“I can’t. My shift’s over in an hour. Will you wait?” There was hope in her voice.
Oliver nodded.
He paid, stepped outside—suddenly craving a cigarette, though he’d quit years ago. He bought a pack at a nearby shop, returned to the restaurant. His thoughts swirled. Part of him wanted to leave, right then. But that would mean running away, still unsure of himself.
Soon, Charlotte emerged. He drove her home. She hesitated before getting out.
“Where now? A hotel?”
“No, I’m heading straight back. Work in the morning.”
He studied her heavy makeup, the way her eyeliner sharpened her gaze—but his pulse stayed steady.
“Why just sit here? Fifteen minutes won’t change anything. Come up, see where I live, have a cuppa before you go.” She gave him a bright, practiced smile.
As they climbed the stairs, Oliver wondered—*why am I doing this?*
Her parents had retired, left her the flat, moved to the countryside. She made tea for him, pulled a half-finished bottle of vodka from the fridge.
“I don’t drink much. JustOliver sat in the quiet car park outside his office the next morning, watching the sunrise, and realized he was finally free to begin again.
