**Blue Vein**
Nicholas was utterly smitten with her. He’d stand beneath her window late into the evening, heartsick, thrilled if he caught even the faintest glimpse of her silhouette. To him, she seemed untouchable, unreachable. He adored her fragility—the pale, delicate skin through which faint blue veins traced like delicate threads. It made his chest ache with tenderness.
At the school Christmas party, he finally asked her to dance. Christina was petite, shorter than him, making it awkward to move together. His hands trembled, his forehead damp with sweat, and his palms burned where they rested on her waist. He was overwhelmed, ashamed that she could surely feel how shaken he was. When the music faded, he pulled away, finally able to breathe again.
It baffled him why no other lads seemed smitten with her.
Take Jake, for instance—he fancied Stacey, tall and athletic, with long, powerful legs. When Stacey ran laps during P.E., towering over the other girls, her high ponytail swung like a pendulum.
But to Nicholas, perfection was Christina—slight, ethereal, utterly enchanting. She haunted his thoughts, an obsession bordering on sickness. His mother disapproved. *”Pretty, but so frail,”* she confided to his father. *”He needs to forget her. What sort of wife would she make? And that name—so foreign, so odd. Send him to university in London. Put some distance between them.”*
His father agreed. Over a man-to-man talk, he urged Nicholas to aim higher—London offered prestige, opportunities, a brighter future. They’d even pay his tuition if needed. Reluctantly, Nicholas agreed.
In his dorm, he pinned up a blown-up photo of Christina from the class picture. But she remained at home while he grew older, gaining experience with other girls, though her ghost lingered in his dreams.
Then he met Marina. With her, there were no trembling hands, no dizzying passion—just quiet understanding, comfort, security. Christina faded into the recesses of his mind.
After graduation, Nicholas married Marina and settled in London. His mother was relieved—far better than that strange, delicate Christina. A year later, their daughter Sophie was born. Nicholas adored her; if she so much as sneezed, he’d have mobilised every doctor in the city. Christina was just a wistful memory from his schoolboy days.
Then, the call came.
*”Your father’s in hospital. They’re operating. Just… come,”* his mother pleaded.
Sophie had a cold, so Marina stayed behind. Nicholas took leave and went alone.
London saw him off with a damp drizzle, but his hometown welcomed him with golden autumn sunlight. His father was recovering well—brave, refusing to worry. With the crisis past, Nicholas had time to himself before returning to his girls.
Walking home from the hospital, he savoured the crisp air, the rustle of leaves underfoot. Then he saw her—a woman bending over a pram, adjusting a blanket. His heart lurched before his mind recognised her.
*”Hello,”* he said as he approached.
Christina straightened, smiled. He studied her familiar face—still pale, still delicate, the veins faintly visible beneath her skin, her gaze distant and sad.
*”Visiting your parents?”* she asked.
*”Father had surgery.”*
*”Is it serious?”* Her eyes flickered with concern.
*”All fine now. And you? Yours?”* He nodded at the pram.
*”Mine.”* The way she said it told him everything—she was alone.
A pang of pity struck him. He wanted to cradle her face and kiss her right there. Instead, he walked her home, chatting about old classmates. He helped carry the pram inside—she still lived in the same flat. Her parents had moved to the countryside.
*”Come by sometime,”* she said at the door.
He hesitated. Just like before, she felt out of reach.
The next morning, he bought roses and went to her. She wasn’t surprised, just hushed him—her daughter was asleep.
*”Hungry? Tea?”* she offered in the tiny kitchen.
*”No. Mum’s been force-feeding me.”*
Being near her set his pulse racing. When she placed the vase on the table, her face was close. He saw the blue vein fluttering at her temple—and broke. He kissed her.
For a heartbeat, she froze. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging like a reed to an oak. He lifted her onto the table—
A cry from the other room shattered the moment. She pushed him away, fled to her child. Nicholas exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He left the kitchen. Christina stood rocking her daughter, the little girl’s tears still wet.
*”I should go,”* he rasped.
She nodded, saw him out. As he opened the door, her voice stopped him—
*”She sleeps soundly after ten. Come then.”*
He turned, stunned. Her eyes held desperation and hope.
Walking away, he wrestled with himself. Years ago, he’d have leaped at the chance. Now, he knew going back would unravel his life. He thought of Marina, of Sophie—things were simple with them. Clear.
Back in London, he showered, drank coffee. The spell broke. He wouldn’t go. What would he even say to his mother?
But then—Christina’s vein, her pleading glance—doubt crept in.
His weary mother returned that evening. *”Your father’s eating well. He’ll be fine. Go home to your family.”*
The decision was made. That night, he kissed his father goodbye. *”Work calls. Sophie’s ill—Marina’s been managing alone.”*
*”You shouldn’t have left them!”* his father chided.
On the train, Nicholas imagined Christina waiting by her window, watching for him.
*This isn’t betrayal. That wasn’t me in the kitchen—just the boy who once loved her. I love Marina. I love Sophie.*
By dawn, he was home. Marina, making breakfast, lit up at the sight of him. Sophie woke, shrieking *”Daddy!”* as she barrelled into his arms. He inhaled the scent of her hair, grinning.
*My home. My family. Where I’m wanted. Where things are simple.*
At Christmas, they visited his parents. On a walk, they passed Christina, pushing her pram, her daughter’s cheeks pink from the cold. Nicholas hung back just long enough to wish her a happy new year before catching up to Marina and Sophie.
Now, he couldn’t fathom why he’d ever been so lovesick. Christina remained a bittersweet memory—a first love never meant to be.
**Some dreams are meant to stay just that—dreams. And there’s peace in waking up to what’s real.**
