**Forget About Her, Mate**
Early on a Sunday morning, the ringing startled Andrew awake. Half-asleep, he grabbed his phone and stared blankly at the dark screen. Then the doorbell sounded again—sharp, insistent. Everyone knew when someone knocked that early, it wasn’t for nothing.
“Morning! Sleeping in, are we?” On the doorstep stood Nick Moss, his old university mate, grinning. “Going to let me in, or what?”
“Nick? Bloody hell!” Andrew pulled him into a crushing hug, dragging him inside. “Should’ve warned me, you git. How’d you even find me?”
“Stopped by your mum’s. She gave me the address—said you’d divorced and bolted up north. Just passing through. Booked the route this way on purpose.”
“Kitchen’s through there. Put the kettle on—I’ll wash up quick.” Andrew vanished into the bathroom.
By the time he returned, Nick had already raided the fridge—slicing cheddar, uncorking a bottle of red.
“Hope you don’t mind. Cupboard’s bloody bare—planning to starve yourself?” Nick clucked, assembling sandwiches with military precision.
“Wine? At this hour?” Andrew squinted at the label.
“Who’s stopping us? Hair of the dog, mate. Loosens the tongue.”
They drank, ate scrambled eggs on toast, and reminisced.
Nick had married well—right out of uni.
“Father-in-law retired, so I’m running the construction firm now. Go on, be jealous. Oldest lad’s finishing secondary, younger one’s twelve. Life’s sorted.” He smirked. “Heard about your mess, though. Still chasing that ghost?”
“Who, Annie?” Andrew exhaled. “No. Never found her.”
“Don’t tell me you’re alone now.” Nick shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.
“Got my son. He’s at his mum’s for her birthday. Ringing me nonstop—back in a few days.”
Back then, the lads had begged Andrew not to marry Laura. But he’d dug his heels in—because she’d reminded him of Annie, his “Assol,” as they’d nicknamed her. Her son, Jack, had called him “Dad” instantly. And Andrew had loved the boy like his own. But the marriage crumbled.
Laura remarried fast. Jack clashed with the stepdad, kept running off to Andrew. Laura accused him of poaching the kid. Sick of the rows, Andrew moved to Manchester.
“Jack spent every summer with me. Laura had a new baby—no time for him. After A-levels, he moved in proper,” Andrew said.
“Christ. EastEnders has nothing on you.” Nick drained his glass.
“Nah, it’s settled now.” They clinked.
“Always hoped you’d find her. That love—proper once-in-a-lifetime stuff.” Nick sighed.
Andrew stayed silent. Lately, he’d buried those memories. But Nick had dug them up, raw and fresh.
At the station, they swore not to lose touch again. Back home, Andrew dug out an old album—found the photo of Annie. He traced her face hungrily, dragged back to those long-gone days…
***
Nick had borrowed his dad’s banger, and the three mates drove south to Felix’s family place. Term hadn’t started—why not a lads’ holiday?
The orchards were heavy with peaches, grapes, figs. The farmers hired them for harvest work—cash was cash, especially for students. They picked fruit at dawn, fleeing to the sea when the sun got vicious.
That’s where they saw her—Annie. Sitting alone on the shore, staring at the horizon.
“Look—Assol waiting for her Grey,” Nick joked.
The name stuck. The others had girlfriends; Andrew never settled down.
Nick and Felix whooped into the waves. Andrew approached the girl.
“Waiting for a ship with scarlet sails?” he teased.
She looked up. The anguish in her eyes gutted him. She turned back to the sea. He sat beside her, hugging his knees. She didn’t flinch.
“Hear that?” Andrew murmured, listening to the waves.
“The sea’s talking,” she said.
He stared. She’d spoken his exact thought. They sat in silence, just listening. His mates shouted from the water. Reluctantly, he stood.
“Got to go. Same time tomorrow?” he asked.
She glanced up—no answer. But next day, she was there.
They talked. Her name—Annie—sounded like music. But when he asked about her life, she left. He walked her home, wordless.
She was a mystery, pulling him in. That night, he tossed a pebble at her window. She stepped out—shorts, a cardigan loose at the neck. They wandered the promenade. He babbled, hiding his nerves; she stayed quiet.
The sunset turned the sky blood-orange, reflected in her eyes. He’d brought his camera. She refused to face it—so he waded into the water, snapped the shot before she could turn.
That photo was his only proof she’d been real.
Every evening, they walked the shore. Once, he dared to lean in—she didn’t pull away, but tensed so violently he retreated. Her enigma obsessed him. He lost weight, burned dark from hours waiting for her. Some nights, he crept home past midnight, up at dawn. His mates stopped joking—they saw it wasn’t just a fling.
Time was running out. He’d confess today. But at noon, the beach was empty. He sprinted to her house—the gate was locked. Another pebble. A woman stormed out.
“Clear off, or I’ll call the police!”
“Please—is Annie there?”
“Gone home.”
“Where? I need her address!”
“Forget her, lad. Better that way.” The door slammed.
That night, she wouldn’t even speak to him.
Next morning, they left. The old car might break down—they needed time. Andrew was silent the whole drive. His mates said if it was meant to be, he’d find his Assol.
By graduation, he’d met Laura. She looked like Annie—slight, but darker-haired. Already a single mum. His parents begged him not to marry her. But he’d convinced himself it was fate…
***
Andrew lit a cigarette at the kitchen window, dawn staining the sky. “Hurry home, Jack,” he thought. No point sleeping now—work soon.
At lunch, Jack called. “Back early. Got a surprise tonight—don’t be late.”
“Mum with you?” Andrew frowned.
“Nope. You’ll see.”
Home that evening, Jack was chopping veg for salad. A cake box sat on the table.
“Blimey—what’s the occasion?” Andrew ruffled his hair. “Trip go alright?”
“Fine. Sit—got something to tell you—” The doorbell cut him off.
“Dad, this is Emily. My girlfriend. Em, this is Andrew.” Jack frowned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In the doorway stood a slender, nervous girl. Andrew’s breath stopped. For a second—Annie. He almost asked why Jack called her Emily. Then he saw the differences—Annie’s hair had been curlier, her eyes sadder.
Over tea, Emily spotted the forgotten photo.
“That’s my mum! We don’t have this one—where’d you get it?”
Jack peered over. “From his album. His mate visited yesterday… Em, is your mum called Annie? Where is she?” Andrew’s voice shook. “No—it can’t be. After all this time… How old are you?”
“Nineteen. Why?”
“Dad’s saying you could’ve been his kid. But it’s fine—I’m not blood-related. We’re not siblings.” Jack forced a laugh.
“Don’t be daft,” Andrew snapped. “Nothing happened with Annie. I just need to know—”
“She died when I was three.” Emily set the photo down.
Andrew collapsed onto the sofa.
“Dad—”
“Wait.” Emily sat beside him. “Mum married young—got pregnant with me. Doctors said not to—she had a tumour. But she had me anyway.” Her voice frayed. “After the chemo, she was too weak to hold me. Then she rallied… Dad took us to his aunt’s by the sea. But I caught cold—mum couldn’t risk it. He sent her alone. I remember her crying when she came back. Dad says I’m imagining it.” She swallowed. “She died a year later. He remarried.”
“I’m sorry,” Andrew whispered. Now he saw it—she wasn’t Annie, just echoes.
“Did you love her?”
“Yes. Never told her, though. We walked the beach at sunset—that’s when I took the photo. Then she vanished. Now I get why her… your aunt said to forget her. God, how?”
“Do I… bother**”No,”** Andrew said softly, reaching for Emily’s hand, **”you’ve brought her back to me just when I needed her most.”**
