**Diary Entry**
*Another problem…*
“Emily, please come with me,” whined Sophie.
“I don’t want to. I don’t know anyone there. Go alone or ask Lily, Kate,” replied Emily. “Exams are coming up—I need to study.”
“Kate’s buried in books, Lily won’t go without her boyfriend, and going alone makes it seem like I’m chasing after David.”
“Aren’t you?” Emily smirked.
“Emily, please…” Sophie clasped her hands as if praying.
“Fine. But if you abandon me there, I’ll never forgive you,” Emily warned, rising from the sofa.
One of the upperclassmen had parents working abroad for a year, leaving their flat free. Every Saturday, they threw parties—mostly final-year students, some alumni too, all acting superior with their barely-there experience, especially toward freshers like us.
Sophie had stumbled in by accident, dragged along by an ex. They’d split, but she’d since set her sights on David. Hence the begging—she hoped to bump into him. With exams on, campus meetups were impossible.
I pulled on jeans and an oversized white shirt, tucking one side in. On my slim frame, it worked. Mascara, hair down, a quick glance in the mirror before turning to Sophie, who was practically vibrating.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Those lashes—you look mysterious. Like some exotic beauty,” she said.
“One condition: if David’s not there, we leave immediately.”
“Deal,” Sophie agreed instantly.
The door swung open to a woman in jeans and a men’s shirt, cigarette dangling, wild curls framing her face. She squinted through the smoke, jerked her head toward the living room, and vanished. Music hummed beneath overlapping voices.
“Don’t bother with shoes,” Sophie whispered as I hesitated. She played the seasoned guest, though her nervous fidgeting betrayed her. The room smelled of half-eaten snacks and cheap wine. A guy lounged on the sofa between two girls; another pair argued over the table. By the window, a couple swayed—if you could call it dancing in the cramped space. No one glanced our way. Even if they did, freshers weren’t worth their time.
We claimed an empty sofa. The doorbell rang, and the same woman reappeared, followed by two guys. The room erupted—handshakes, backslaps, even the dancers broke off to greet them.
“There he is!” Sophie bolted over, but David barely acknowledged her. The other guy, though—tall, athletic, older—studied me with sharp grey eyes until I looked away.
“Hi. Bored?” He dropped beside me. Up close, he looked even older. “Haven’t seen you before. Dance with me?” His hand was warm, his grip firm.
We shuffled near the window where the other couple had been. The music stayed low, letting us talk—my course, my halls, my family. More people filtered in, as if the flat had secret rooms.
Sophie reappeared, flushed and miserable. “I’m leaving.”
“I should go too,” I said, regret twisting my stomach.
“I’ll walk you. Just need to say goodbye.” Outside, Sophie fumed.
“Prat,” she muttered, meaning David.
I barely heard her. Then he emerged—Christopher, he introduced himself.
“Christopher *Sterling*? Captain of the uni football team?” Sophie squealed. “I dated one of your die-hard fans!”
She babbled the whole way, monopolising him until we reached my door.
“Wait.” He caught up as I turned away. Sophie’s glare burned into his back.
The evening cooled the day’s heat. We lingered by my building, neither wanting to part. He worked for a local paper, he said—dreamed of TV journalism. “You’ll hear my name someday.”
“And you? Teacher material? Love kids?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bristled.
“Just asking.” He handed me his number, grinning when his pocket rang. “Now you have mine.”
That night, Sophie called. “You *dark horse*. How’d you snag Christopher Sterling? Kiss yet?”
“No. I went home to study.” I didn’t mention the number.
He called days later, as I’d given up hope. Exams were over; summer stretched ahead. We rented pedal boats, ate at cafés, met daily. I fell hard. His beat-up car took us to countryside walks, lazy swims…
Then rain trapped us indoors. “Friend’s place?” he suggested. I tensed when he used his own key.
“Where is he? Bring many girls here?” I edged toward the stairs.
He caught my wrist. “Just tea. He’s abroad—I’m house-sitting.”
I stayed. I was in love. If something happened… why not now? It did. He was gentle.
We met there often after. Then he left for a “work trip.”
Weeks later, Sophie dropped by. “You look miserable. Saw you two together. Did you know he’s *married*?”
“Jealousy’s ugly,” I snapped.
“It’s true. He has a *kid*.”
I pieced it together—daytime meetings, avoiding town, his “late-night writing.” All lies.
I texted him: *I know. Never contact me again.* Then blocked him.
Then the nausea started.
We’d been careful—except that first time. Stupid. A baby? First year? Mum would kill me.
The clinic was humiliating. The doctor’s contempt stung. “Private payment only.” Two days later, I lay trembling on a cold table, hating him as the anaesthesia pulled me under.
Mum noticed only my pallor. Classes resumed. I missed him, even considered forgiving him.
Then bespectacled Oliver slid into my lecture. Wiry, awkward, brilliant—no one noticed him. Including me.
“You’re seeing Sterling?” he whispered.
“None of your business.”
“His wife’s lovely. Kid’s barely a year old.”
“Why tell me?”
“So you don’t waste hope. He’ll lie, delay, argue. Why bother? You deserve better.” His voice softened. “I’ve always liked you.”
I shifted away. Oliver versus Christopher? No contest. But love doesn’t vanish, even when betrayal cuts deep.
Weeks later, Christopher ambushed me outside my flat.
“Emily, please. I’m *miserable* without you. I lied because I was scared of losing you.” His eyes clung to mine.
“So leave your wife.”
“It’s not that simple. Marriage is *work*—problems, responsibilities. I didn’t want that between us.”
“Your *wife* is a problem? So am I?” I choked out.
Had he stopped before those words, I might’ve folded. Instead, I walked away. Next day, I kissed Oliver where Christopher could see. He never came back.
Oliver grew on me. Witty, well-read, endlessly patient. He aced every exam, helped me through mine.
“Ever thought of journalism?” I asked once.
“Prefer teaching to gossip-mongering,” he laughed.
Mum adored him. “That boy’s going places.”
He proposed after graduation. We married, moved into a cozy house. Oliver’s textbooks earned acclaim; soon, the Department for Education recruited him. I taught at a private school, raised our daughter, and—occasionally—remembered Christopher.
Sophie visited once, gushing: “Guess who’s back? *David* took me to dinner!”
She paused. “Oh—David mentioned Christopher. Divorced, moved to London, married some editor’s daughter. Guess family problems *aren’t* a dealbreaker with the right connections.”
I hid the sting. So much for “I *can’t* leave my wife.”
Years later, a new pupil arrived—Dasha Sterling. Her mother confirmed it at parents’ evening. “Christopher’s daughter. He left right after she was born. Last I heard, he’s writing for some obscure London paper—TV never panned out.”
I walked home, thinking of him. Well, he’d reached London. And I had Oliver—respected, devoted, steady. A daughter I adored. A life with no regrets.
Maybe love isn’t fireworks. Maybe it’s the quiet embers that stay warm.
