You Are My World
James and Emily lived in the same building, on the same floor, just across the hall from one another. James had just started Year Five and was considered old enough to look after five-year-old Emily whenever her mother, a surgeon, was called away on weekends to tend to difficult cases.
James took his role seriously—feeding her, scolding her when she misbehaved, always watching over her. Emily, in turn, followed him like a devoted shadow, gazing up at him with wide, dark eyes.
One summer day, Emily caught tonsillitis—how, in June, no one could say—and James spent his days keeping her company. His friends knew where to find him. They rang Emily’s flat to ask him to come down for football.
“I can’t,” James said soberly. “I’m looking after Emily.”
“Bring her along then—she can cheer!” Thomas suggested.
“She’s ill, feverish. It’s not safe. Play without me today.”
“But who’ll be in goal?” grumbled Edward, clearly disappointed.
“Take turns,” James offered, watching their faces fall.
“Nah, that’s no fun. We won’t go either, then.”
“Fine, come up,” James sighed, letting the boys inside.
Emily, a scarf wrapped around her neck, sat on the sofa flipping through a picture book. Her face lit up when she saw the boys.
“These are my mates—Edward and Thomas,” James introduced them. “They’ll stay a bit. That alright?”
“Read to me?” she asked, holding out the book with childish eagerness.
“Let’s build a fort instead!” Edward eyed the round table in the middle of the room.
“How? We don’t have branches or straw,” Emily said, her eyes bright—whether from fever or excitement, it was hard to tell.
“Don’t need straw. Can we use that blanket from the sofa?” Edward asked. “If we drape it over the table, it’ll make a hideout.”
One blanket wasn’t enough, so Emily showed James where to find a spare. Soon all four were crammed beneath the table—hot, stuffy, dark, and thrillingly secret.
“Let’s tell scary stories,” Thomas suggested. “My great-grandad fought in the war.”
“Boring,” Edward muttered.
“Bet you don’t know how many medals he earned—too many to count. He delivered bread during the Blitz.”
“Still boring,” Edward sighed.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew the half of it. He told us people ate pets—even each other—just to survive. Made bread from sawdust.”
“Ew. You can’t eat people!” Emily shivered, pressing closer to James.
“I know scarier tales,” Edward cut in cheerfully. “Last summer at camp, we told stories about the Black Man. Proper terrifying.”
Emily went very still. The word *black* alone seemed sinister, especially in the dim fort. At the mention of *terrifying*, she trembled.
“He wears all black. If you’re not careful, he snatches you away—never to be seen again. Appears and vanishes like a shadow. Loves naughty children who wander off…”
“Enough. You’re scaring her,” James cut in sharply, feeling Emily shake against him. “She’ll have nightmares.”
“I’m not little,” Emily protested—though her wavering voice betrayed her. “I don’t want to hear about him. It’s too scary.”
The front door clicked open. The children froze. Slow footsteps approached, then stopped right beside them. Edward fidgeted. Thomas breathed fast. Emily buried her face in James’s chest, his heartbeat loud beneath her ear.
The blanket lifted. Emily squealed, eyes squeezed shut.
“There you are!” Her mother’s voice rang out.
“Mum!” Emily scrambled out, flinging herself into her arms.
“Why’s the table covered? What mischief have you lot been up to?” she asked, eyeing the rumpled boys emerging from their fort.
“We made a hideout and told scary stories,” Emily babbled.
“Weren’t you frightened?”
“Only when we heard footsteps. I thought it was the Black Man coming for us.”
“Black Man?” Her mother’s disapproving gaze swept over the boys, lingering on James. He hung his head, guilty.
“Clean this up and wash your hands. Lunch soon,” she said, leading Emily away.
Later, James and the boys did play football. Emily napped, but each time she shut her eyes, the Black Man lurked in her mind.
By the time James started secondary school, Emily was only in Year One. He was too old now to babysit—and she was grown enough to stay home alone. Still, she’d often rush to him for help or when thunder roared—she’d always hated storms.
If James and his mates went to the cinema or the ice rink, Emily tagged along. If they refused, tears won them over. James, soft-hearted, always persuaded them.
He taught her to skate, to heat soup in the microwave, to love adventure novels. By sixth form, James went to films not with friends but with a pretty classmate named Charlotte. Once, Emily spied them kissing behind the houses. Her childish heart twisted with jealousy.
After school, James left for military college, rarely visiting. Emily was glad—no girls around him—but ached with missing him.
Once, he came home on leave to find his parents out. He knocked next door. Seeing him in uniform, taller, broader, Emily blushed. James, too, seemed struck by how she’d grown.
Over lunch, his eyes kept drifting to her. Under his gaze, her lashes fluttered, cheeks pinked. Her pulse raced.
His parents returned, and James left—leaving Emily in a daze. She didn’t see him again before he left.
After training, James was posted overseas. Emily studied medicine. Three years later, he returned on leave. Heart pounding, she waited, lingering by the window, jumping at every footstep outside.
“He’s grown. Probably courting someone. Focus on your studies—he sees you as a sister,” her mother said.
Emily knew, but couldn’t accept it. Days passed. Pride stopped her from knocking first.
Then, one afternoon, a taxi stopped below. Out stepped James—but instead of heading inside, he opened the rear door. A pregnant woman took his arm.
Emily’s heart shattered. *He’s married. A father soon.* She locked herself in her room and wept. Her mother was right—she had to forget him. But how, when he haunted every thought? She persuaded a friend to escape to London for a few days.
When she returned, James was gone. Heartbreak faded to dull ache. After graduation, she worked in her mother’s ward—but surgery wasn’t for her. Losses cut too deep. She moved to a rehabilitation centre—specialising in spinal injuries.
Years passed. Now Dr. Alexandra Wilson, respected by colleagues and quietly adored by male patients, she remained untouched by their advances.
Then a new patient arrived. *”Handsome officer—already seen combat, wounded. Pity if he’s left crippled,”* the nurses whispered.
Emily recognised James at once—he’d visited her dreams often enough. But he didn’t know her—not with her mask on.
The nurses flirted shamelessly, nicknaming him *”Heathcliff”* for his brooding silence.
Once, limping in early with his cane, James found her unmasked. He studied her—something familiar tugging at him—but still didn’t place her.
That afternoon, a storm broke. Thunder rattled the windows. Emily flinched.
“Afraid of thunder?” James asked, almost teasing.
“Since childhood. The boys loved scaring me—Black Man stories.”
He stared. “Emily?” Recognition dawned. “I heard your name—didn’t connect it. You work here? I’ve thought of you often. Are you married?”
“Are you?” she countered.
“No. Never found anyone like you.”
“But—I saw you with that woman, pregnant…”
James paused. “Oh—that was a fellow officer’s wife. He couldn’t get leave, so I met her at the station—dropped her with her parents. They had a son. We celebrated hard!”
Emily’s breath caught. All these years, she’d thought… Too afraid to ask, she’d fled to London. By the time she returned, his parents had moved away—his grandfather needed care. So much time lost.
Another thunderclap. Emily startled—then instinct had her leaning toward him, just like childhood.
“Remember our fort under the table? How you squealed when your mum lifted the blanket?” he asked.
His gaze held tenderness now, not teasing. She remembered his heartbeat under her ear—and longed to press close again. Instead, she smiled.
“Best memories of my childhood,” she admitted. “I’ve patients—we’ll talk later.”
The next day, he returned with flowers.
“I never brought you any. Making up for that,” he said, eyes sad. “I leave in an hour.”
“So soon? Your treatmentAnd as the first snow of winter dusted the rooftops outside, Emily slipped her hand into James’s, knowing she’d never let go again.
