Emma
The days blurred together, each one starting with the same knot in my stomach. I'd tell myself I wouldn't go to the woods, that I had too much to do at home — washing dishes, chasing after Zoey, keeping the twins from setting the curtains on fire. But by mid-morning, I'd always find myself slipping out the back door, heart hammering as my feet carried me down the path.
Every time, he was there. Blanket spread out, a picnic beside him, that tentative smile lighting his face the moment he saw me. I'd scold myself for giving in, but the truth was I needed this, needed that small bubble of peace that we carved out together.
We never said it out loud, but our restraint became its own language. Our knees brushed against each other, and our hands lingered when we passed food back and forth, but we always pulled away before it became too much. And yet, those almost-touches sent heat rushing through me every time.
"You always bring the same things," I teased one afternoon, taking an apple slice from him.
He looked so serious when he answered, "Bread, fruit, juice. What more do you need? You should be impressed."
"Impressed?" I snorted. "What about chocolate? That's what I need." I said with a smile. He didn't realise I was teasing him.
The way his ears went pink made me laugh harder than I had in days. He would never know how much I needed those small moments.
It wasn't at all easy. The chaos at home kept creeping into my chest, no matter how much I tried to leave it behind. Boxes piled higher each day. Dad sorted tools and things to take to Hull, talking about work on the docks like it was the only option left.
Mum snapped at everyone, her sharp voice bouncing off the cottage walls.
By the third day, I admitted it to Tommy. "We're nearly finished packing," I said quietly, twisting my hands together. "Hull is all Dad talks about."
His whole face hardened. "That's over a hundred miles away."
"I know." I tried to sound calm, but my voice cracked. "But what choice do I have?"
"You have me," he blurted, then faltered. "I mean — I'll find a way. Just… don't give up ... yet."
I wanted to believe him, but hope didn't pack boxes. So I stayed quiet, and the silence hurt.
Still, every day, I went back. Even when my heart ached, even when I told myself I shouldn't.
Because sitting next to him on that blanket, shoulders brushing, hearing him try to make me laugh with the worst jokes in the world — it felt like a lifeline.
And by the tenth day, when he reached for my hand and held it tight, whispering, "Just don't forget me," I knew I never could. No matter where life dragged me, no matter how far away we went, forgetting Tommy Whitmore would be impossible.
Tommy
Those ten days were the longest, and shortest days of my life. Each morning I sat through breakfast at home, listening to Father chuckling about investors and "progress," Mother fussing over trivial details, while Emma's family packed their whole lives into boxes. I couldn't stand it. I'd push back my chair, mutter something about needing air, and leave before my father could notice my jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
The woods became the only place that made sense. And she was always there.
Emma would slip into the clearing with that cautious step, as if she wasn't sure she should come, and my chest would loosen the second our eyes met. Her smile — small, shy, but real — kept me breathing.
We'd sit together on the blanket, sharing the same sandwiches, apples, and juice. She teased me about my lack of creativity, and I teased her back just to see her laugh. That laugh — it was worth everything.
But underneath it all was tension, heavy and unspoken. I wanted to reach for her constantly. To brush the stray hair from her cheek, to hold her hand longer than a heartbeat, to kiss her until we forgot the world. But we kept pulling back. We both knew how quickly one step too far could tip into something neither of us was ready for.
Still, there were moments that nearly broke me. The way her fingers brushed mine when I passed her an apple. The way she leaned closer when she laughed. The way her eyes softened, even when she tried to hide how tired she was.
By the eighth day, I couldn't keep the frustration from my voice. "I like bringing food for you," I told her when she said it was too much. "It's something I can do. Even if it's small."
She put her hand over mine, just for a second, and whispered, "thank you." That fleeting warmth burned through me like fire.
On the ninth day, she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper, "When I think about Hull, I can't breathe."
The words twisted in my chest. "Then don't go."
She laughed, bitter and broken. "It's not my choice."
I wanted to promise to make it better, to change everything that threatened to take her from me. But all I could say was "I'll find a way. Just… don't give up ... yet."
Her eyes shone, but her voice was weary. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm not," I whispered. And I meant it.
On the tenth day, when she tried to pull away again, I couldn't stand it. I caught her hand, holding it tight. "Let's make the time we have count. Even if it's the last time we'll see each other."
She didn't look at me, not at first. Then, slowly, she squeezed my hand. "I don't want to go, Tommy," and a tear fell onto her cheek.
I watched it trickle to her chin, her words lodged deep inside me, heavier than any promise I'd ever made. And as the sun sank behind the trees, I realised that no matter what my father planned, no matter how far Hull was, Emma had already become part of me.
And I wasn't about to let her go. I couldn't.