*Heartbeat*
“Oliver, you don’t need to go to the branch yourself. Let Emily take the documents,” the director said impatiently.
“Sorry, but I’d prefer to go myself. It’s my hometown. Haven’t been back in a while.”
“Still got family there?” the director asked, softening a little.
“No. I moved Mum here, but—”
“Ah, I get it,” the director interrupted. “Home turf—sacred ground. Fine, go ahead. But tomorrow’s a big day. You’ll be back in time?”
“Absolutely,” Oliver promised. “Thanks.” The director waved him off, done with the conversation.
Oliver stepped into his office, cleared his desk, turned off his computer, grabbed the folder, and locked up, leaving the key with security downstairs. He didn’t stop by his flat—just called Mum from the car, asked how she was feeling, and told her he wouldn’t visit tonight. Had an important meeting. Didn’t mention the trip to their hometown. She’d only fuss, and with her dodgy heart, best not.
“Mum, gotta go. Ring me if you need anything.” He pocketed his phone and started the engine.
Outside the city, he pulled into a petrol station, filled up, grabbed a coffee and a couple of sausage rolls. No more stops—documents had to be delivered before the workday ended. Could always call ahead if he ran late, ask them to wait.
No plans to see old mates, anyway. They’d all scattered. Just wanted to wander the streets where he grew up. He turned on the radio, some chart hit filled the car. He sipped the coffee.
***
After Dad died, Mum started fading. The doctors blamed her heart. Oliver begged her to move to the city—better healthcare. She refused. Said he needed his own life, she’d just be in the way. But as she got worse, he finally convinced her. Sold her old place, topped up the money, and bought her a little flat near his.
He hadn’t been back to his hometown since.
Could you ever forget your first love? Maybe she’d left long ago, but the streets, the house—still there. His teenage self, standing under her window, aching. Even now, thinking of Sophie made his pulse jump. He’d never felt that way again. Like he’d left his heart buried in that town.
Skinny, quiet Sophie—just another girl in class—barely registered till sixth form. After summer, she walked in different. Older, brighter. And Oliver realised he *had* a heart, the way it thudded when she passed.
From then on, he thought of nothing else. Counted down to the Christmas dance—his chance to ask her, to confess.
The big night came. Year 13s packed the hall. After the performances, the music started. He skipped the first slow song, chickened out.
Hours passed. Just upbeat tracks now. Chances slipping away. He stood by the wall, biting his lip. Then—finally—a slow melody. The crowd thinned.
*Now or never.* He bolted across the room, cutting off anyone else headed for Sophie by the window.
His heart hammered so hard his vision blurred. Felt like he might pass out. Couldn’t speak. Just held out a shaking hand, desperate.
Sophie glanced at her friends—then smiled. In front of everyone, Oliver clumsily took her waist. Hands on his shoulders, swaying in place.
His legs turned to wood. Trembling head to toe. Other couples moved around them, but he saw nothing, barely heard the music. Heart in his throat, blood roaring.
Her strawberry lip gloss—smelled like actual berries. Years later, that scent still brought it all back.
Music cut off. Sophie stepped away abruptly, laughing with her mates. Their eyes flicked to him. Face burning, he bolted.
Months later, the night before her birthday, Oliver crouched in his room, waiting for his parents to sleep. Finally—snoring. He slipped out, grabbed a tin of paint from under the sink. Under Sophie’s window, he scrawled *HAPPY BIRTHDAY!* in big letters. Below, his initials: *O. H.* (Oliver Hughes). But to him, they stood for *With Love*.
Next day, he waited for any sign she’d seen it. Nothing. At break, she invited half the class to her party—not him.
Confused, he skipped home, detoured past her street. His stomach dropped. The paint—water-based. Washed away by rain. She’d never known.
That night, he lingered outside her house. Music and laughter spilled from her window. Someone stepped onto the balcony—lighter flicked. He left.
At prom, he tried one last time. Asked her to dance.
“I don’t dance,” she said, turning away.
“I’m leaving for uni soon,” he croaked. “Sophie, I love you.”
She spun back.
“Well, I don’t love *you*.”
That was that.
He got wasted, slunk home early. Went off to uni in the city. Once, back on break, he spotted Sophie arm-in-arm with some bloke. Locked himself inside, returned to campus early.
Later, heard through mates she’d married. Tried to forget. Dated other girls—never felt the same.
***
Lost in thought, Oliver didn’t notice the drive. Dropped off the papers.
“Staying at a hotel?” the client asked.
“No, just grab a bite and head back.”
The client smirked. “Yeah, *‘just a bite’*. Come on, I know a decent spot.”
Oliver agreed. Grew up here, but back then, restaurants were out of reach.
The place was all white tablecloths and chandeliers. Before they’d even sat, a waitress appeared. White blouse straining, black skirt too tight. Sophie—older, harder, but unmistakable.
He skipped wine, ordered steak. When she brought the food, his client’s eyes glued to her hips.
*Why does she parade herself like this?* No ache in his chest. Just irritation.
Later, he lingered over coffee. The client left.
Sophie returned.
“Hi. Didn’t recognise you at first. More coffee?”
“Nah, I’m wired. Sit with me?”
“Can’t. Shift ends in an hour. Wait for me?”
He nodded.
Outside, he bought cigarettes—first time in years. Nearly walked away. But leaving now would’ve felt like running.
When Sophie emerged, he drove her home. She lingered in the car.
“Hotel after this?”
“No, straight back. Work in the morning.”
He studied her caked makeup. His pulse stayed steady.
“Why just sit here?” she said. “Come up. Tea, then you’ll go.”
Upstairs, he asked himself—*why?*
Her parents had retired to the countryside, left her the flat. She made tea, then pulled out half-finished vodka.
“Don’t judge—just takes the edge off.”
“Why not find another job?”
“Not much going round here. Tips help.”
She drank, talked. First marriage—gone in a year (he cheated). Second—left him (drunk).
“Remember that dance?” she slurred, flushed.
How could he forget?
She stood, pulled him up. Hands on his shoulders, head against his chest. He held her. Then she tilted her face up.
“Kiss me.”
Her eyes gleamed—booze or tears? He did. No strawberry taste now. Just vodka. No fireworks.
Later, in bed, she murmured regrets. *Could’ve been us. Kids. A life.* He craved a smoke.
On the balcony, freezing, he looked at the sleeping town. Inside, Sophie slept too. Makeup smudged, hair tangled. Looked older.
He dressed, left quietly.
At the petrol station, a sleepy cashier yawned.
“You do flower deliveries?”
“Starts at nine.”
Sophie’s restaurant opened at noon—she’d be home. He chose the biggest bouquet, tucked in a note: *”Lovely evening—thank you.”*
On the motorway, his mind circled. *Gym membership, better clothes, quit drinking—she could clean up.*
But the farther he drove, the stupider it sounded. Love was long dead.
He patted his pocket—no cigarettes. Left at hers. Didn’t bother buying more. A song played—*their* song, from the dance. He changed the station.
Back home, showered, suited up. Within a week, the trip felt like a dream. He’d send someone else next time. Closure.
For the first time in years, he felt light. Heart steady.
Then—Emily in the car park.
“Nice starting the day with a pretty colleague. Dinner tonight? Three years working together—”
“—and four months,” she finished, smiling.
*She likes me. Sweet girl. Reliable. Mum’d approve.*
And for the first time in forever—his pulse quickened.
