You Are My World
Oliver and Emily lived in the same building, on the fifth floor of a red-brick terrace in Manchester. Oliver had just started Year Five and was old enough to look after five-year-old Emily, who lived across the hall. Her mother was a surgeon, often called away on weekends for emergencies.
Oliver took his duty seriously—feeding her, scolding her when needed, standing up for her. Emily obeyed without question, trailing after him like a shadow, gazing up with wide, dark eyes.
One summer day, Emily caught tonsillitis—how, in June? Oliver stayed with her while his mates rang the doorbell, calling him to football.
“Can’t come. Watching Emily,” he said gravely.
“Bring her along! She can cheer,” suggested Alfie.
“She’s ill. Fever. You lot play without me.”
“Who’ll keep goal then?” grumbled Patrick.
“Take turns,” Oliver offered, watching their deflated faces.
“Boring. We won’t go either.”
“Fine, come in,” Oliver sighed, letting them into the flat.
Emily sat wrapped in a scarf, flipping through a picture book. She brightened at the sight of the boys.
“These are my mates—Patrick and Alfie.” Oliver pointed them out. “Mind if they stay?”
“Read to me?” She held out the book with childlike bluntness.
“Let’s build a fort instead,” Patrick declared, eyeing the round table.
“How? We’d need sticks and straw,” Emily said, eyes glittering—whether from fever or excitement, who could say?
“No straw needed. Can we use that blanket?” Patrick tugged at the sofa throw. “Drape it over the table—instant den.”
One blanket wasn’t enough. Emily directed Oliver to the spare quilt in the cupboard. Soon, all four were crammed beneath the table—hot, stuffy, dark, and thrilling.
“Let’s tell scary stories,” Alfie suggested. “My grandad fought in the war.”
“War’s boring,” Patrick groaned.
“He had loads of medals. Delivered bread during the Blitz—people ate rats, even their own family. Made bread from sawdust—”
“Ugh! People aren’t food,” Emily shuddered, pressing into Oliver.
“I know scarier ones—about the Shadow Man,” Patrick cut in, grinning. “Told ’em at camp last year. Proper creepy.”
Emily froze. The word *shadow* alone was sinister, especially in the dark. At “creepy,” she trembled.
“He wears all black. If you’re not careful, he snatches you away. Vanishes like smoke. Loves little kids—run off from your parents, and—”
“Enough.” Oliver cut him off, feeling Emily shake against him. “You’ll give her nightmares.”
“I’m not little,” Emily muttered. “But I don’t want to hear more. It’s scary.” Her voice wavered.
The front door clicked. The children stilled. Slow footsteps approached, pausing near the table. Patrick fidgeted; Alfie’s breath quickened. Emily buried her face in Oliver’s chest, his heartbeat loud under her ear.
The blanket lifted. Emily screamed.
“Found you!” Her mum’s voice rang out.
“Mum!” Emily scrambled free, flinging herself forward.
“Why’s the table covered? What were you doing?” Her mum eyed the dishevelled boys.
“It’s a fort. We told scary stories,” Emily babbled.
“Were you scared?”
“Terrified. When I heard steps, I thought the Shadow Man came for us.”
“The *what*?” Her mum’s sharp gaze landed on Oliver, who ducked his head. “Tidy this up. Wash your hands. Lunch now.”
After lunch, the boys slipped out to play football. Emily napped, but whenever she closed her eyes, the Shadow Man loomed.
Years passed. Oliver started secondary school; Emily, just Year One. He rarely babysat now—she was old enough to stay alone. Still, she’d dart over during thunderstorms or to ask questions. If the lads went skating or to the cinema, Emily would wheed, tears at the ready, until Oliver relented.
He taught her to skate, reheat soup, love adventure books. By sixth form, Oliver took dates to the cinema—once, Emily saw him kiss a pretty classmate, Lucy. Her heart twisted with jealousy.
After graduation, Oliver left for Sandhurst. Home visits were rare. Emily was glad—no girls around—but ached with missing him.
Once, he returned to an empty flat and knocked next door. In uniform, he seemed taller, older. Emily blushed under his gaze; Oliver, noticing how she’d grown, kept stealing glances at dinner. His stories felt meant for her alone. When his parents returned, he left, leaving Emily restless.
After Sandhurst, Oliver was posted overseas. Emily studied medicine. Three years later, he came home. She waited by the window, heart pounding at every footstep.
“He’s grown. Time to marry. You’re just like a sister to him,” her mum said.
Emily knew, but couldn’t accept it. Days passed—no visit. Pride stopped her from knocking first.
Then, a taxi pulled up. Oliver stepped out—but then opened the rear door. A pregnant woman took his arm. Emily’s heart seized. *He’s married. A baby coming.*
She locked herself in her room, weeping. Her mum was right—but forgetting him was impossible. She fled to Edinburgh with a friend to clear her head.
When she returned, Oliver was gone. Pain faded to hollow regret. After uni, Emily worked in her mum’s hospital but couldn’t stomach surgery’s losses. She moved to a rehab centre for spinal injuries.
Years later, “Dr. Emily Thornton” was respected—and relentlessly flirted with by patients. She never reciprocated.
Then a new patient arrived—a wounded officer. “Handsome bloke,” the nurses whispered. “Pity if he’s left disabled.”
Emily recognised Oliver instantly—he’d appeared in her dreams for years. But masked, she went unnoticed.
The nurses flirted openly, dubbing him “the Brooding Captain.” Once, limping in early, he studied her uncovered face. Something nagged at him—but still, no recognition.
A storm broke at noon. Thunder shook the windows. Emily flinched.
“Afraid of storms?” Oliver asked, lightly mocking.
“Yes. Boys used to terrify me with Shadow Man stories.”
He stared. “Emily?” Finally, it clicked. “You work here? I’ve thought of you often. Are you—married?”
“Are you?”
“No. Never found anyone like you.”
“But—I saw you with that pregnant woman…”
“My mate’s wife. He couldn’t get leave, so I drove her to her parents’. They named the boy after me.”
Realisation struck. All these years, she’d assumed… Too proud to ask, too cowardly to stay. Then his parents moved; his grandad needed care. So much wasted time.
Another thunderclap. Emily shuddered, instinctively leaning toward him.
“Remember our blanket fort?” Oliver asked softly. “How you screamed when your mum lifted it?”
His gaze was tender now—unlike before. She recalled listening to his heartbeat, longing to rest her head there again. Instead, she smiled.
“My happiest childhood memory. But I’ve patients—we’ll talk later.”
“Of course.” He left.
The next day, he returned with flowers.
“Never gave you these. Correcting that now.” His eyes were sad. “I leave in an hour.”
“But—your treatment? Your posting?”
“Medical discharge. My dad’s ill. Emily, I need toShe took the ring, tears blurring her vision, and whispered, “You’re my world.”
