The Blue Vein
Oh, how Oliver adored her. He’d lose his mind over her, standing beneath her window late at night, thrilled if he caught even a glimpse of her silhouette. She seemed untouchable, out of his league. He was charmed by her fragility—her pale, delicate skin with those faint blue veins just beneath the surface. It made his heart ache with tenderness.
At the school Christmas party, he finally asked her to dance. Emma was shorter than him, and it was awkward, but he didn’t care. His hands trembled, his forehead slick with sweat, his palms burning where they rested on her waist. He was a mess, mortified that she could feel how nervous he was. When the music stopped, he stepped back, finally able to breathe again.
It baffled him why other lads weren’t smitten with her.
Take Jake, for instance—he fancied tall, athletic Lucy, with her long, strong legs. When Lucy sprinted across the field during PE, towering over the other girls, her high ponytail swinging like a pendulum, Oliver just didn’t get it.
To him, Emma was perfection. She was his obsession, his daydream, his quiet obsession. His mum didn’t share his infatuation. “Pretty, I suppose, but so frail,” she’d said to his dad one evening. “We need to distract him. She’s not right for him. Who knows what goes on in her head? She’s too delicate, otherworldly. And that name—so unusual. Convince him to study abroad, maybe in Edinburgh. Get him away from her.”
His dad agreed. Over a pint, he told Oliver how Edinburgh had better opportunities, how a degree from a top university would set him up for life. They’d even cover tuition if he missed the scholarship. And Oliver, reluctantly, said yes.
In his dorm, he pinned up a blown-up photo of Emma from a class picture. But she was back home, and he was young. He gained experience, dated other girls, but Emma stayed tucked away in his memories and dreams.
Then he met Sophie. Being with her didn’t make his hands shake. His mind was clear, and they just *clicked*. It was easy, comforting. Slowly, Emma faded into the background.
After graduation, Oliver married Sophie and stayed in Edinburgh. His mum was relieved. “Better than that odd girl,” she’d say.
A year later, their daughter Lily was born. Oliver adored her—if she sneezed, he’d have the entire NHS on speed dial. Emma was just a distant schoolboy crush now.
Then his dad fell ill. “He’s having surgery. Just in case, come home,” his mum pleaded over the phone.
Lily had a cold, so Sophie stayed behind. Oliver took unpaid leave and went alone.
Edinburgh saw him off with icy rain, but his hometown welcomed him with golden autumn sunshine. His dad put on a brave face, refusing to panic.
The surgery went well. His mum stayed at the hospital round the clock, leaving Oliver free. With the crisis over, he could’ve returned to his girls—what he called Sophie and Lily—but he lingered.
Walking home from the hospital, he savored the crisp air, the crunch of leaves underfoot. Ahead, a young woman stopped, adjusting a pram. His heart lurched before his mind caught up.
“Hey,” he said as he approached.
Emma straightened, recognized him, smiled. He studied her familiar narrow face, the delicate skin, those faint blue veins—still there, still haunting him.
“Hello. Visiting your parents?” she asked.
“My dad. He had surgery.”
“Anything serious?” Worry flickered in her eyes.
“All good now. You?” He nodded at the pram.
“Mine.” The way she said it told him she wasn’t married.
A pang of pity hit him. He wanted to cup her face and kiss her right there. He walked her home, asking about old classmates, babbling about himself. He carried the pram upstairs—she still lived in the same flat. Her parents had moved to the countryside.
“Drop by sometime,” she said as he left.
He could’ve gone up now, but he didn’t. She was still untouchable.
The next morning, he bought roses and went to her. She wasn’t surprised, just shushed him—Lily was sleeping.
“Hungry? Tea?” she offered in the tiny kitchen.
“Nah. Mum’s been force-feeding me.”
Being so close to her made his pulse race. When she set the vase down, her face was inches away. He noticed the blue vein on her temple, pulsing.
He couldn’t resist. He kissed her. She froze—then melted into him, her thin arms wrapping around his neck like a vine clinging to an oak. He lifted her effortlessly onto the table—
A cry from the other room shattered the moment. Emma pushed him away, darting off to the baby. Oliver shook his head, as if waking from a trance.
“I should go,” he rasped.
She nodded, carrying her daughter to the door. As he stepped out, her voice stopped him—
“She sleeps soundly after ten. Come back then.”
He turned sharply, unsure if he’d heard right. Her eyes were desperate, hopeful.
Walking away, he wrestled with himself. Years ago, he’d have leaped at the chance. Now? His life would unravel if he went back. Why had he kissed her? If not for the baby, she’d have let him have her right there.
At home, he showered, drank coffee, cleared his head. He wouldn’t go. He couldn’t.
His mum returned exhausted but relieved. “Your dad’s fine. Go home to your family.”
That settled it. He left that night. Before the train, he visited his dad, who scolded him—”Why’d you leave Sophie alone with a sick kid?”
Lying in his train bunk, he pictured Emma at her window, waiting. *This isn’t cheating*, he told himself. *That wasn’t me—it was the lovesick boy who used to worship her. I love Sophie and Lily.*
By dawn, he was back in Edinburgh. Sophie, making porridge for Lily, lit up when she saw him. Then Lily woke, shrieking, “Daddy!” He hugged her, inhaling that sweet child scent, and smiled. *This is home. Simple. Right.*
That Christmas, they visited his parents. On a walk, they bumped into Emma, her daughter napping in the pram, cheeks rosy from the cold. Oliver hung back, wished Emma a happy New Year, then hurried to catch up with Sophie and Lily.
Now, he couldn’t fathom why he’d once been so wretchedly in love with her. He regretted that autumn kiss but was glad he’d walked away.
Emma would stay in his memory—beautiful, painful, a first love never to be relived.
