**COULDN’T LOVE HIM BACK**
“Alright, girls, which one of you is Lily?” The stranger eyed us with a sly smile, arms crossed over her cardigan.
“That’s me. Why?” I frowned, gripping my friend Emma’s arm.
“Got a letter for you. From William.” She pulled a crumpled envelope from her pocket and pressed it into my hand.
“William? Where is he?” My chest tightened.
“Transferred to a care home for adults. Waited for you like you were rain after a drought, Lily. Nearly wore his eyes out staring out the window. Gave this to me to proofread—didn’t want to embarrass himself.” She sighed, shooting me a look. “I’ve got to go. Lunch duty. I work here as a carer.” And just like that, she hurried off.
…Months earlier, Emma and I had wandered onto the grounds of an unfamiliar building—sixteen, reckless, summer stretching ahead like an open road. We’d perched on a bench, giggling, when two lads approached.
“Alright, girls? Fancy some company?” The taller one grinned. “Name’s William.”
“Lily,” I’d said. “This is Emma. And your quiet friend?”
“Luke,” the other muttered.
They seemed oddly old-fashioned—William especially, clucking his tongue at our short skirts like some Victorian schoolmaster.
“Bit revealing, don’t you think? And that top’s practically a handkerchief, Emma.”
We’d laughed. “Eyes front, boys, or they’ll pop right out of your heads!”
“Hard not to look. We’re only human. You smoke, too?” William pressed, all seriousness.
“Course. But not *properly*,” Emma teased.
Only then did we notice the way they walked—William stiff-legged, Luke with a pronounced limp.
“You here for treatment?” I’d asked.
William rattled off the lie like a rehearsed line: “Motorbike crash. Luke took a bad dive off a cliff. Getting discharged soon.”
We believed them. How were we to know they’d been here since childhood—that this place was their world? To them, we were sunlight slipping through barred windows.
They were clever, though—well-read, wise beyond their years. Soon, we visited every week. At first, out of pity; then because they made us think.
Now it was ritual: William plucking daisies for me, Luke folding origami swans for Emma, cheeks pink as he handed them over. We’d squeeze onto the bench—William too close, Luke turned toward Emma—talking about nothing and everything while summer melted away.
Then autumn came. School swallowed us whole. We forgot them.
…Until exams ended, until diplomas were in hand, and we found ourselves back on that bench, waiting. Two hours passed before a carer stormed out, thrusting the letter at me.
*”Dearest Lily,*
*You were my wildflower in a walled garden. Every meeting was a gasp of air. Six months I’ve watched that gate, hoping. You never came. Our paths fork here, but thank you—for showing me love. I remember your laugh, your hands, the way you’d tilt your head when lying. It hurts, Lily. One more glimpse—that’s all I’d ask. But there’s no air left.*
*Luke and I turned eighteen. They’re moving us. Doubt we’ll meet again. Pray this sickness—you—passes.*
*Goodbye, my impossible girl.”*
A dried daisy fell into my lap. Shame coiled in my throat. Somewhere, a voice whispered: *We’re responsible for those we’ve tamed.*
I hadn’t known. Hadn’t meant to stoke that fire. To me, he was just William—clever, kind, but never *more*.
…Years later, the letter brittled to dust. But I remember.
Emma married Luke. She teaches at a special needs school now; they’ve two grown sons. William? His mother took him home to Cornwall. After that—silence.
And me? I still wonder if the daisies ever grew back where he picked them.
