**Diary Entry – June 12th**
From the very first day at university, two girls couldn’t help but notice each other. Both pretty, eerily similar in looks, they became inseparable from then on.
Emma believed she deserved better than spending her whole life in some quiet backwater town like her parents had. Her mother worked as a shop assistant, her father as a builder—and of course, he drank. After school, she announced she was leaving for London to study. Her parents sighed but didn’t argue. Maybe she’d have better luck than her older sister, who’d married poorly and was now raising two kids alone. They couldn’t send much money, but they promised to post homemade preserves whenever they could. A neighbour worked as a train conductor on the London line, so at least there was that.
Once in London, Emma vowed never to go back. She befriended Sophie because Sophie was a born-and-bred Londoner—her father a doctor, her mother an accountant. A proper, respectable family.
Sophie pitied Emma, and Emma took full advantage. Complaining her boots were worn through? Sophie would hand over an extra pair. Nothing to wear to a party? Sophie would lend a dress—their figures were the same, after all. Emma even stayed over during exams. The halls were no place to study.
Emma hated academics but buried herself in books, though all she really wanted was to dance the nights away in clubs. No matter. Once she graduated and secured her place in London, she’d have her fun.
Sophie, on the other hand, made everything look effortless. Emma envied her, though she’d never show it. And as fate would have it, they both fell for the same boy—a handsome, sporty lad named James, whose father was stationed at a military base nearby. Soon, the three were inseparable.
*”James, you sharing them or what? Hand one over,”* the lads would tease. Even lecturers joked, asking whom he really fancied.
James ignored them. He preferred Sophie—quiet, kind Sophie—but he didn’t dare show it. He didn’t want anyone thinking he’d picked her just because she was a Londoner.
In lectures, he’d brush his knee against hers, lean in as if to whisper. No one noticed—except Emma. She saw the tension, the way they froze, and resentment boiled inside her. Sophie had everything: the London life, the good family, and now the best bloke too.
James grew tired of hiding. He confessed to Sophie, and to Emma, he made it clear—she was the third wheel. The group splintered. Emma wouldn’t have it. She wouldn’t lose Sophie, nor would she surrender James.
So she plotted. Fairness had to be restored. She couldn’t confront them head-on—she needed them to fight, to break apart. And quickly. Third year was ending; exams loomed. What if they married before graduation?
*”Maybe if she broke her leg, stayed home. No—James would just carry her everywhere. Better if she got acne. I’ll buy her strawberries…”*
Fate, however, favoured Sophie. It was Emma who broke out in spots.
Before exams, James’s mother fell seriously ill. He arranged to sit his papers in August and left. London was basking in rare summer heat—perfect for the beach, not textbooks. After their first exam, the girls wandered through the city. Emma paused outside a bridal boutique.
*”Which dress would you pick?”* she asked.
*”Dunno. Haven’t thought about it.”*
*”Come off it. Every girl dreams of a white dress. I’d want this one.”* She pointed to a gown with a full skirt. *”Suits me, yeah? Let’s try it on—it’s free!”*
*”In this heat? You’ll sweat to death. Let’s get ice cream instead.”* Sophie tugged her away.
*”Just one dress. Pretend I’m the bride and you’re the maid of honour.”*
*”Trying on a dress before you’re engaged is bad luck.”*
*”Old wives’ tales. Everyone does it. Just one, please?”*
Sophie relented. A bored, sweaty shop assistant greeted them. Emma played the bride-to-be, scrutinising gowns, finally picking one. Sophie admitted it looked stunning. *”You could walk down the aisle tomorrow—if you had someone to marry.”*
*”We’ve got a perfect dress for you,”* the assistant told Sophie. *”Fits few, but you’re slim enough. I’ll knock the price down.”*
*”I’m not getting married,”* Sophie stammered.
*”Not yet. Just try it.”*
Sophie did. When she stepped out, Emma’s breath caught. The dress hugged her like it was made for her. No lace, no frills—just effortless elegance.
*”Needs a veil,”* Emma muttered.
*”A tiara would suit better,”* the assistant suggested.
*”Fetch it then,”* Emma snapped, masking her envy.
Of course Sophie looked perfect. Emma glared at her own reflection—her dress now seemed garish, cheap. The assistant pinned a jewelled hairpiece into Sophie’s updo. Emma’s stomach twisted.
*”Mind if I take a photo? It suits you so well,”* the assistant said.
*”Me too.”* Emma pulled out her phone. *”Smile. Now turn around—look back at me. Perfect.”*
*”Enough. Joke’s over.”* Sophie retreated to change.
Emma was alone. Then it hit her—the perfect way to ruin them. She scrolled through the photos. Sophie looked every inch the blushing bride. *”A bit more editing, then straight to James. Let him see his girl’s marrying someone else.”*
In one shot, a man stood outside the shop, phone in hand. *”Perfect. The waiting groom.”* She barely stifled a cheer.
Later, exams done, Emma didn’t go home. Her sister had taken over her old room. She called, claiming she’d found work—no need for money. Her mother sighed in relief.
*”Olive’s kids need so much these days.”*
*”Unbelievable. The second I say I’m working, she cuts me off.”*
*”They’re struggling too. Your sister needs help,”* Sophie soothed.
*”She should’ve thought of that before having kids!”*
*”I won’t abandon you. Come round—Mum made stew.”*
*”I’d be lost without you,”* Emma said, meaning it.
A month later, she sent James the photo of Sophie in the wedding dress.
He returned in August.
*”You’re glum. Your mum worse?”* Sophie pressed.
*”No, she’s fine. Congrats, by the way.”*
*”For what?”*
*”Your wedding. Why didn’t you tell me?”*
*”What? That’s mental!”*
*”Then what’s this?”* He showed the photo.
*”A joke! Emma dragged me in. Now I see why. James, let me explain—”*
*”Funny joke.”* He walked away.
*”Why’d you send him that?”* Sophie rounded on Emma.
*”You looked gorgeous. Wanted him to propose already.”*
*”Now he thinks I’m a liar!”*
James ignored her calls. Sophie avoided Emma. But Emma didn’t care. Term was starting—money would come again. She didn’t need Sophie. James, though? He’d be hers.
In lectures, Sophie sat alone, stealing glances at Emma and James. Then James’s mother died. Emma stuck close, never leaving his side. Soon, they were engaged, transferring to distance learning, moving to his father’s new post in York.
Two years after graduation, Sophie married her father’s friend’s son. Her parents’ choice, not hers. They never loved each other. No children came. He strayed; they divorced after seven years.
***
*”Why there? That village is dead! What will you even do?”* her mother pleaded.
*”I need space. I can’t breathe here.”*
*”Go to Spain, then. Or Greece!”*
*”I want solitude, not crowds.”* Sophie packed stubbornly. *”You wanted me to marry Henry. We both hated it. He never loved me. I lasted as long as I could.”*
The country house was smaller than she remembered. Her grandfather had built it, dreaming of generations filling its halls. Instead, his son left for London, married, built a career. The house stood empty after her grandfather’s death, though someone local kept an eye on it.
The walk from the station felt endless, her suitcase rattling over dirt tracks. The gate was latched but unlocked. The key turned easily—someone had oiled the lock. Inside smelled of damp and old paper.
She lit the stove, fetched water from the well. A bearded man leaned on the neighbouring fence. *”That’s been dry for years.”*
*”Where can I get water?”*She turned to leave, and there, beneath the old oak tree, James stood waiting, his outstretched hand offering the future they’d both been too afraid to claim.
