“COULDN’T LOVE HER BACK”
“Girls, fess up—which one of you is Lily?” The stranger studies me and my friend with playful suspicion.
“That would be me. Why?” I reply, confused.
“Here’s a letter for you, Lily. From William,” the unfamiliar girl pulls a crumpled envelope from her coat pocket and hands it over.
“From William? Where *is* he?” I ask, surprised.
“He’s been moved to the adult care home. He waited for you, Lily, like a starving man waits for bread. Wore his eyes out watching the gate. He let me read this first to check for mistakes—didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you. Anyway, I’d best be off. Lunch service starts soon—I work here as a carer.” She gives me a reproachful look, sighs, and hurries away.
…It had all started that summer, back when Sophie and I, sixteen and restless, wandered onto the grounds of an unfamiliar building during the holidays, craving adventure. We perched on a bench, chatting and laughing, hardly noticing when two lads approached.
“Alright, girls? Fancy some company?” The taller one—William—grinned, offering his hand.
“I’m Lily. This is Sophie,” I replied. “And who’s the quiet one?”
“Leon,” the other mumbled.
They seemed oddly old-fashioned, almost prudish. William frowned at our skirts. “Bit short, aren’t they? And Sophie, that neckline’s rather bold.”
“Eyes *up*, lads,” Sophie shot back, giggling. “Wouldn’t want them popping out of your heads.”
“Hard not to look. We *are* blokes,” William persisted. “Don’t tell us you smoke too?”
“Course we do. Just not properly,” I teased.
It was only then we noticed their legs—William shuffled awkwardly; Leon had a pronounced limp.
“You here for treatment?” I guessed.
“Right. Motorbike crash,” William recited quickly. “Leon botched a cliff dive. We’ll be discharged soon.”
Back then, we swallowed the lie whole. We didn’t know they’d been disabled since childhood—that they were lifers at this care home, and we were their fleeting taste of freedom. Each resident had their own rehearsed story—a car crash, a bad fall, a bar brawl gone wrong.
But William and Leon were sharp—well-read, wise beyond their years. Week after week, we returned. Partly out of pity, partly because there was something oddly grounding about them. It became routine. William would pick flowers from the garden for me; Leon, blushing, would press origami into Sophie’s hands.
Summer melted into a soggy autumn. School swallowed us whole. By graduation, we’d forgotten them entirely.
…Until the day we wandered back. The bench was empty. No flowers, no paper cranes. Just that stranger with the letter.
I tore it open:
*”Dearest Lily, my sweet bloom, my unreachable star—you never knew, did you? I loved you from the first glance. Those afternoons were my oxygen. Six months I’ve stared at that gate. You forgot me. Our paths fork here, but I’ll always be grateful—you taught me real love. I remember your voice, your laugh, your hands. God, I miss you. Just one more minute—that’s all I’d need.
Leon and I turned eighteen. They’re moving us come spring. Doubt we’ll meet again. It’s shredding me. Maybe someday this ache will fade.
Yours always,
William.”*
A dried petal fluttered out. Guilt clamped my chest. That stupid quote echoed—*we’re responsible for those we tame*. I’d had *no* idea. I’d just enjoyed the attention—teasing him, stoking the fire, never dreaming it’d consume him.
…Decades later, the letter’s yellowed, the flower dust. But I remember.
Sophie’s story ended differently. She fell for Leon—abandoned as a baby for his “defect” (one leg shorter than the other). She trained as a teacher, works at a care home now. Married him. Two grown sons.
William, Leon told us, stayed alone. At forty, his mother reappeared—took one look at her forsaken son, wept, and whisked him off to her village. After that? Gone. Like petals on the wind.
