Emma
The trees blurred as I hurried down the path, Zoey's little arms clinging to my neck. My cheeks burned, and I wiped at them furiously with the back of my hand, hating the tears before they could even fall.
How could I be this stupid? Two weeks. That's all it had been. Two weeks of stolen moments in the woods, of jokes and smiles and kisses that made it feel like the world had tilted under my feet. And here I was, breaking apart because Tommy Whitmore looked at me with those warm eyes and I believed it meant something.
I pressed my lips together hard, tasting salt, swallowing back the sob that clawed at my throat.
What did I think would happen? That he'd stand up to his perfect parents, to his perfect life, and pick me? That we could belong to each other when we came from worlds that never touched except in the shadows of these trees?
Zoey tugged at my hair, giggling softly as if nothing was wrong. I managed a shaky smile for her, but inside I felt hollow.
The woods had always been my escape, the place where I could breathe. But now even here, everything reminded me of him. His laugh tangled in the branches, his voice in the rustle of leaves, the ghost of his hand reaching for mine.
And the worst part — the part that twisted my stomach until I thought I might break — was how much I still wanted to turn back. How much I wanted to feel his arms around me again, his lips against mine, to forget all of it just for one more second.
But wanting him was a weakness I couldn't afford. Not when my whole life was being ripped up by the roots. Not when in a matter of weeks, maybe days, we'd be gone from here and none of it would matter.
I shifted Zoey higher in my arms and walked faster, blinking hard at the sting in my eyes.
I wasn't going to cry over Tommy Whitmore.
Not when I already had so much else to lose.
Tommy
Father was in unusually high spirits at breakfast. He spread marmalade across his toast with the flourish of a man who thought the world was bending itself neatly to his will. He chuckled at something Mother said about the garden party, even made a rare attempt at conversation with me.
I could barely stomach it. His cheerfulness was like salt ground into a wound. All I could think about was Emma — her eyes hardening as she pulled her hand away from mine, her shoulders stiff as she walked off into the trees.
And he sat there smug, content, as though our lives weren't being crushed under the heel of his "progress."
My appetite gone, I shoved my chair back with a scrape that made Mother flinch. Father glanced up, brow arched, but I didn't give him a chance to speak. I left the dining room, slammed the door behind me, and didn't stop until the woods closed around me.
The air was damp and cool, heavy with the smell of moss. I went to our spot, the place by the lake where the trees leaned close, where I could almost believe the world belonged only to the two of us.
And I waited.
Emma
At breakfast, Mum was already snapping about the washing needing to be done and Dad finishing his tea before work. She barely looked at me, which suited me fine — I had no patience for her barbs today.
Dad kept his head down, quietly chewing, occasionally murmuring a word to Zoey when she fidgeted. He looked older somehow, more tired, like the weight of Hull was already pressing on his shoulders.
I pushed my food around my plate. My chest ached with a different weight, one I couldn't name without feeling foolish.
I could have gone to the woods. Could have slipped away and found Tommy waiting there with that stubborn hope in his eyes. But what good would it do? Each time I let myself near him, it only hurt more when I remembered everything crashing down around us.
So I stayed home. I scrubbed the kitchen floor, sorted laundry, let Zoey pull me into her games. Anything to keep busy. Anything to keep me from the ache of wanting to see him.
Tommy
The first day, I told myself she was busy.
The second, I told myself she was sick again.
The third, I ran out of excuses.
Still, I went and I waited. I sat on the damp grass until the cold seeped into my bones, until the shadows stretched long. I pictured her walking through the trees at any moment, her hair catching the light, her smile lifting me out of this suffocating silence.
But she never came.
By the fourth day, desperation had taken hold. I couldn't wait in the woods anymore. I needed to see her, needed to know she hadn't just — vanished.
I went to her house. The door creaked open and her mother filled the frame, her face sharp as glass.
"What do you want?" she asked flatly, arms folded tight across her chest.
"I — I just wanted to see Emma."
Her eyes narrowed, her mouth twisting. "She doesn't need the likes of you hanging around, not with everything else going on. Go on. Off with you."
The door shut before I could speak again.
I stood there a long moment, staring at the peeling paint of the door, the muffled sounds of life carrying on inside without me.
Then I turned away, the rejection burning deep, and walked back down the path alone.