Cute Babies (2025)

15/08/2025

Such is life: We lost 20 precious years, but our time finally came!

My name is Emily Whitaker, and I live in Canterbury, where Kent hides its cosy little streets among oak groves. I could never be his one true love—fate never gave us a chance to grow close as a couple. And he, my James, kept throwing himself into love headfirst, giving his heart to women who only broke it. For twenty years, we danced around each other, and only now, as our youth fades, has life taken pity on us.

It all started in Year 11 when James joined our class. New, shy, with an open heart—he caught my attention straight away. Seven months later, he fell for Charlotte, our classmate—sharp, sly, with a mischievous grin. She pretended to love him back, played him like a puppet. She even introduced him to her parents—they adored the "good boy." Meanwhile, behind his back, Charlotte was seeing the most popular lad in school, Jack. James turned a blind eye until he caught them together at her house party. But even then, he didn’t walk away—he stayed as her shadow, her cover. Charlotte’s parents thought Jack was trouble and forbade her from seeing him, while James was their "perfect future son-in-law." He shared her with another and endured it. I, his best mate, listened to his excuses, his tears, his pain. It went on for years.

Then there was Sophie—sweet, fun, but not ready for a serious life. James dreamed of marriage, kids, and when she said "yes" to his proposal, he believed it was forever. But on the morning of the wedding, she vanished—never put on the dress, never stepped into the registry office, just disappeared. James crumbled. I was there—already his colleague, his right hand at work. I watched him drown his sorrows in paperwork, swear off love. Then came Olivia—the life of the party, funny, carefree. Everyone adored her, and she seemed to love everyone. James fell hard. Then he found out she was pregnant—by another man. The real father showed up at the birth but refused to claim the baby. James gave the boy his last name, raised him as his own. Olivia cheated again and again, but he put up with it—for the child, for the love still burning in him. Until she dropped the bomb: she asked him to be godfather at her wedding to a new bloke. James said yes—stayed to care for her son, excusing her fickleness.

Next was Amelia—demanding, like a spoiled princess. She made him take her to fancy restaurants, serve breakfast in bed, plan lavish holidays. For three years, he bent over backwards for her, until she threw a tantrum on a flight over a one-hour delay. Right there in the air, she dumped him, screeching he wasn’t good enough. Then came Hannah —jealous to the point of madness. James—loyal, devoted—never gave her reason. But she hated me, his best friend. We worked together, inseparable as siblings. Hannah demanded he quit—because of me. Said he talked about me too much at home. Sure, we spent every day together, but there was nothing between us but friendship. I loved him in secret; he never saw it. I had a boyfriend, Oliver, who knew my heart belonged to someone else. He stayed, waiting for a miracle. And James kept chasing new loves, believing in them. So, we drifted apart for ten years.

A decade later, we bumped into each other at a café in Canterbury High Street. Time stopped. We talked for hours, laughed, reminisced. I never married; neither did he. In those years, he had three more empty flings, and I broke up with Oliver—he found someone who gave him her whole heart. I was still waiting for James. "I’ll never find real love, someone to grow old with. Guess I don’t deserve it," he muttered, staring into his empty mug. I couldn’t take it—I grabbed his hand and kissed him. He pulled back: "What are you doing? Don’t pity me!" Pity? I pitied myself—for years of silence. "James, can’t you see? I’ve loved you since school!" I blurted, trembling. He froze. Confessed he’d …
St🅾️ry c🅾️ntinues in 💭c🅾️mments -

14/08/2025

Years passed before I could think about it without bitterness—without that messy mix of shame and gratitude I couldn’t even name back then, at nineteen. Now I’m in my thirties, married with a daughter, and life has long since settled into place. But that story, that secret he and I still keep, stays with me like a reminder—of my own mistakes, and how crucial it is to have someone who can save you—from others, from the world, and most of all, from yourself.

When I was eighteen, I was head over heels for Edward—my dad’s best friend. He was nearly twenty years older, sharp, steady, refined. The kind of man with a past: long divorced, worked in local government in York, always smelled of good cologne and coffee. To me, he was straight out of a film—chivalrous, attentive, with a quiet voice and eyes you could drown in. I daydreamed about him, scribbled his surname next to mine in diaries, convinced this was the grand love they wrote about in books.

He... he saw what was happening. And thank God, he never indulged it—not a flirt, not a glance, not even a hint. He was gentle but firm. Never crossed a line, even when I, wild with teenage hormones, did everything to provoke him.

When he pulled away, I seethed. Decided to get back at him—or so I thought. That’s when I got tangled up with Liam—a guy everyone warned me about: family of drinkers, a charmer with empty promises. My parents begged me to walk away, Mum in tears, Dad shouting. Even Edward tried to step in, telling me I was heading for disaster. But I? I thought he was jealous. Controlling. That they all just wanted to "keep me the good girl."

I ignored them. And soon enough, I was pregnant.

Liam vanished the day he found out. I was alone, terrified, furious, humiliated. I couldn’t tell Mum—she was barely holding it together, Dad’s heart condition was worsening. Any shock could’ve finished him. I sobbed into my pillow every night, no idea where to turn.

Then one evening, I dragged myself to Edward’s door. He opened it, and I crumpled on his doorstep.

He didn’t ask questions. Just said, *"Come on. We’ll sort it."*

And we did. His ex-wife, who I’d once judged, turned out to be brilliant—an obstetrician with a golden touch. She saw me through every scan, right up to the end—which, for me, was an abortion.

Edward handled it all: appointments, payments, being there. No lectures, no blame. Just steady presence. Every single day.

I know he never breathed a word to my parents. He saved me—and my family—from horror, pain, shame. He acted like a man of honour. A real man.

Months later, he took me to a café. We sat in silence until he finally said, *"Your dad’s worse. Doctors say even a donor heart wouldn’t survive the surgery."*

Something inside me broke. Dad died a week later. And through it all, Edward stayed—holding my hand, talking to Mum, arranging the funeral. He wasn’t afraid of my grief. He cried with me.

Years have gone by. Edward moved to Brighton, remarried. We don’t speak much, just the odd letter. But I’ll never forget. His silence. His protection. How he never gave in to my childish crush—never wrecked my life.

I don’t know what I saw in him then—maybe a father,…
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14/08/2025

I might have made the biggest mistake of my life—leaving my father alone. Life doesn’t forgive when you put off what truly matters.

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment, a stranger’s words, or a story to shake us awake. Sometimes, to realise how far we’ve strayed in our priorities, we just need... to step outside ourselves. Looking back now, I’m horrified—another moment, and I might have left my own father to face the silence that slowly devours the soul.

My name is Eleanor, I’m 41, living in Manchester, working as an accountant for a private firm. Married, two kids. An ordinary life, like millions of women: work, family, chores. Never enough time, always spinning plates, always "later." That "later" nearly cost me the most precious thing—the chance to simply be there for the man who gave me life.

Two days before Christmas Eve, I was at my desk. The holidays were close, and it was my husband’s birthday. My mind raced with menus, guests, cleaning. My boss called me in, and I braced for a tense chat. To distract myself, I scrolled through news sites until I stumbled on a story that hit me like lightning.

It was about an old man who’d waited years for his children and grandchildren to visit. He called, wrote, hinted. Nothing worked. So, he did something desperate—he sent them... his own obituary. Letters announcing his "death." Only then did they find the time, the money, the will to come. Only then did they see how much he’d aged, how alone he was.

That story burned everything else from my mind. Gone were the thoughts of canapés, table settings, family gripes, spreadsheets. All that remained was the image of my father.

My dad is a quiet, strong man, reserved to a fault. After Mum passed six years ago, he held on. Back then, he had my uncle, a few old friends, neighbours. They were his lifeline. But time passed. One died, another moved to Australia to be near his kids, the neighbours changed, friends faded. Dad was left alone in his old flat in Liverpool. We spoke on the phone, but more and more, I heard pauses. Long, heavy ones.

That day, sitting across from my boss, I didn’t hear a word. I nodded, signed papers, but inside, I was screaming: *You left him alone. You forgot who held your forehead when you were ill, who carried you on his shoulders when you were tired, who fixed your bike and stroked your hair when you cried over a failed test.*

I rushed home and gathered everyone. My husband, the kids—firm, clear: "I’m going to Grandad’s. Today. For a few days. And if you want, come with me."

To my surprise, no one argued. My husband just nodded. A day later, we were in Liverpool.

Dad stood in the doorway like he’d been waiting. No surprise. No questions. Just held me tight, silent for a long time. We spent the holidays with him. Fried fish, baked Mum’s pie recipe, played ludo with the kids, reminisced. I watched him come alive again—the stooped old man turning back into the dad I remembered.

And I realised: we forget how quickly the people we love grow old. That for them, loneliness isn’t a habit—it’s a sentence. They don’t need our money, parcels, cards. They need *us*. Our time. Our eyes meeting theirs.

After we got home, I changed everything. I visit Dad more. We call every evening. I put the kids on video so he can see them. We joke, argue, share news. And …
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14/08/2025

I was about to get married, but I fell in love with his brother! How do I untangle this mess?

My name is Emily Whitmore, and I live in York, where the River Ouse winds lazily past ancient streets. I’m 28, and I’m desperate—I need your advice, an outside perspective. Behind me is a string of failed romances: I’ve been betrayed, abandoned, used, left with a shattered heart. So when I met James on the coast of Cornwall, his persistent courtship didn’t melt me straight away. I kept my distance, thinking it would just be a harmless holiday fling. But he wasn’t like the others—he was polite, clever, honest to a fault. James confessed he was struck by my beauty, my wit, my grace, that I was the one he wanted to build a life with, to cherish until his last breath. He had a prestigious job, stability, confidence—he could provide for a wife and children.

Our connection didn’t end after the holiday. I returned to York, he to London, where he was from. Every evening he called—never pestering—and every Friday he’d come to me, spending weekends together, growing closer each day. Slowly, I believed him: we were made for each other. Both of us were mature, wise from experience, ready for commitment. His love was stronger than mine, and that gave me hope I wouldn’t get burned by heartbreak again. When I finally said "yes" to his proposal, James took me to London to meet his parents. They welcomed me warmly, smiling, even praising their son’s choice. In front of them, he slipped a stunning engagement ring onto my finger, and his mother took me to a jeweller’s to pick out a gold necklace and earrings. She insisted I choose what I loved—it touched me deeply.

We set the wedding for mid-September, waiting for his brother, Oliver, to return from Switzerland, where he lived and worked. James was eager for us to meet. The day after Oliver arrived, he brought him to York. And then everything fell apart. The moment our eyes met, I felt the ground vanish beneath me. Never had a man’s presence burned so fiercely—my heart pounded, my breath caught. I saw Oliver freeze, as if struck by lightning, unable to look away. It was inexplicable: meeting someone for the first time, yet feeling this overwhelming pull—emotional and physical—crashing over me like a wave. That same night, he called me from London and laid everything bare. His words—passionate, urgent—still echo in my ears, making my knees weak. He said for James, marriage was duty, stability, order, and I fit his strict checklist for the perfect wife. But it wasn’t love. Not the wild, all-consuming passion burning in him—and in my eyes. He couldn’t bear the thought of another man—even his brother—holding me, claiming me.

I wept, trying to explain I’d given my word, that his parents would be devastated, that we had to bury these feelings, no matter how agonising. But he wouldn’t listen. "We’ll go to Switzerland, marry, leave them no choice. Otherwise, it’s torture—a slow death. Our love doesn’t deserve a grave!" he shouted down the line. I was torn between guilt and the fire in my chest. James was steady, kind; Oliver was a storm, dragging me into an abyss of passion. I felt like a traitor to one and hopelessly in love with the other. Then fate threw another test: I slipped on the stairs at work, broke my ankle and my wrist. Two surgeries, a cast, months of recovery—the wedding had to be postponed.

Now James comes to York every weekend. He cares for me tenderly, helps me through the pain, swears he’ll wait for me at the altar. Meanwhile, Oliver calls five times a day from Switzerland, begging me to run away with him: "I’ll fly to you, take you secretly, bring you back on my plane!" His voice is poison to my conscience—yet intoxicating. My heart screams: choose love, leap into the unknown with Oliver! But my mind, my upbringing, my morals insist: stay with James, forget this madness, don’t wreck everything you’ve built. I’m torn. Sometimes I think—should …
St🅾️ry c🅾️ntinues in 💭c🅾️mments -

14/08/2025

Our daughter-in-law is a predator with a pink-lipped smile. She’s waiting for us to die so she can sn**ch our flat.

Believe me, it’s bitter to write these words. Not because I want to slander anyone in the family, but because I don’t understand how it’s come to this: I sit at the kitchen table, clutching my old embroidered cushion to my chest, whispering to my husband that we’ll likely leave the flat… to the church. Yes, you heard right—not to our son, not to our grandchildren, but to the parish. Because if we don’t, this home, built with our sweat and tears, will go to a woman who slipped into our lives like a thief in the night—quiet, sure-footed, with a plan already in place.

I’m Margaret Whitmore, 67, living with my husband in central Birmingham in a spacious three-bedroom flat we bought 22 years ago. Back then, we sold our cottage, drained our savings, took out a loan—every inch of this place is steeped in hard work, fear, and hope. We raised our son, dreaming of the day he’d bring home a bride—kind, clever, steady. Someone who’d step over the threshold and into our hearts. But it didn’t turn out that way.

Five years ago, Tom—our only son—first brought home Irene. Right away, I knew: this girl didn’t belong. Not in manner, not in taste, not in outlook. In essence. She didn’t fit. Common, loud, with a smug little smile. But worst of all—her eyes. No respect, no warmth. Just cold calculation and false charm.

Tom, spellbound, hung on her every word. She spoke, and he melted. She suggested marriage, and he sprinted to the registry office. When I urged caution, said they should take time to know each other, he took offence. Said he loved her. And I… I stayed silent. Didn’t want to lose him.

After the wedding, they rented a place. We kept our distance, helped where we could—money, groceries, gifts. But with every visit, Irene grew bolder. Snide remarks, mockery, hints. And my Tom? Sat there grinning. As if he truly believed his wife was pure gold.

Then last Christmas, something happened that still sticks in my throat. We invited them for dinner. I cooked Tom’s favourite—roast duck with apples, potato salad, homemade pies. Wanted them to feel at home. Over the meal, I said, casual as I could:
"Maybe think about buying your own place? While you’re young, you could get a mortgage. We’d help."

Irene didn’t even blink.
"Why bother? You’ve got this flat. It’ll be ours anyway."

My heart dropped. Like a blade of ice straight through it. I looked at her, and what I saw wasn’t a daughter-in-law, wasn’t the future mother of my grandchildren—just a shark in lipstick. And the worst part? Tom said nothing. Not a word! Just laughed it off.

After they left, I sat with Bernard, my husband, in the kitchen for hours. He’s usually steady, unshaken—but for the first time, he said:
"This isn’t right. We owe them nothing."

That’s when we first talked about changing the will. We decided: if this carries on, the flat goes to the church we’ve spent our lives beside. Not out of spite. But because we won’t let the home we poured our souls into fall into the hands of a woman whose heart runs on pound signs.

All our lives, we dreamed of passing our home to our son—a house full of grandchildren’s laughter, of family tradition. But not at this price.

I wonder—should I tell Tom outright? If I do, I’ll sever ties. If I don’t, I’ll spend every day waiting, knowing …
St🅾️ry c🅾️ntinues in 💭c🅾️mments -

14/08/2025

I was lonely and broken. But one random encounter changed my life forever.

I was thirty-three. Fifteen years had passed since school, yet life had brought me no happiness, no family, no stability. No wife, no children, not even a proper job. Temporary gigs, rented flats, and chronic exhaustion had become my daily routine. Inside, I felt hollow. I’d lost myself.

When my old classmates started organising a school reunion, I wasn’t in the mood for celebrations. And as if to complete the picture, two days before the event, I was made redundant. No job left. My self-worth had hit rock bottom.

I’d made up my mind not to go. But my old schoolmate James refused to let me give up.
*"Andrew, you have to be there! At least come and see how much we’ve all aged!"* he laughed over the phone.

In the end, he even drove to my place, handed me a shirt, and dragged me along. And I went—reluctantly, with a weight in my chest.

The restaurant was buzzing. Glamour, laughter, suits, elegant hairstyles, photos of children, husbands, holiday homes, and cars. My classmates seemed to be competing over who’d done best. Meanwhile, I just stood there, awkward, sipping wine in small gulps. It felt like I didn’t belong.

After about an hour, the air grew too thick. I stepped outside into the cool night, letting the silence and darkness wrap around me. I sank onto a bench, closing my eyes. Then, I heard it—a quiet sniffle.

A little boy sat on the steps. He couldn’t have been more than five or six, tear-streaked, with a scraped knee.
*"What happened?"* I asked softly.
*"They took my bike... The older boys did..."* he hiccupped. *"Now Mum’ll be cross. She told me not to leave..."*

Turns out, his name was Oliver. He’d slipped away from his gran, taken his brand-new birthday bike, and tried to ride to his mum, who worked—of all places—in that very restaurant.
*"She’s a waitress here,"* he added quietly. *"I missed her."*

I took his hand.
*"Let’s find your mum. You shouldn’t be out here alone."*

We went back inside. I asked the manager to call for a waitress named Emily. Then, from around the corner, she appeared—petite, her hair slightly messy, an apron tied over her clothes, panic written across her face. When she saw Oliver, she pulled him close and burst into tears—right there, in front of everyone. And in that moment, I saw more than just a mother’s fear.

*"You found him?"* she whispered to me. *"He vanished—I thought I’d lose my mind."*
*"Just heard him crying. I was at the school reunion… Guess I was in the right place."*
*"Thank you. You actually cared,"* she said softly. Then she smiled—a real one, through the tears.

I was about to leave, but the boy grabbed my hand.
*"Will you come back?"*

That stopped me in my tracks. For the first time in years, I didn’t want to run. Instead, I wanted to stay. Emily scribbled her number on a napkin and pressed it into my palm.
*"If you’d like—drop by. Even just for coffee."*

The next day, I texted. The day after, I visited. Emily and I talked for hours. She told me she’d been widowed two years earlier—her husband died in a crash. She was raising Oliver alone, no help, working herself to the bone but never complaining.

She wasn’t …
St🅾️ry c🅾️ntinues in 💭c🅾️mments -

14/08/2025

From Pain Came Love: Thank God for Sending Me Simon

My name is Emma Whitmore, and I live in Canterbury, where the rolling hills of Kent meet the River Stour. Since childhood, I’ve been mad about children—I’d spend hours watching little ones play in the park, dreaming of the day I’d have my own. By twenty-five, that dream felt almost within reach. I’d pause to watch children laugh, tumble, and pick themselves up, my heart aching with longing.

James was my first real love. We made plans, talked of marriage, and when I discovered I was pregnant, joy washed over me like a summer tide. I could already picture our family, our home, our baby. But for him, the news was a blow. He paled, withdrew, then packed his bags and left our shared flat without a word. I never saw him again. Nights were restless, my mind swarming with doubts: abortion, adoption, raising the child alone. The first two I dismissed—they would’ve been a betrayal of myself. The third terrified me. I knew my parents would judge, their disapproval biting, but I was ready to fight.

They say morning brings wisdom, and it brought me hope. That day, trudging to work with a heavy heart, I nearly collided with Simon at the entrance. He was my neighbour—a tall, kind man who’d made his interest clear more than once. I’d caught his lingering glances, watched him rush to carry my shopping bags. Usually, I’d just murmur a quick "hello," but that morning, I stopped. We talked. He asked about James, and somehow, I poured out everything—the pain, the fear, the loneliness. That evening, he waited by the door with a crimson rose in hand. A month later, we married. I didn’t want a ceremony—it felt hypocritical—but Simon insisted: "Trust me, love. It’ll be alright."

My husband was pure gold—gentle, clever, endlessly patient. Yet I didn’t love him. When our daughter Lily was born, he worked miracles: in four days, he turned our house into a wonderland, fixing everything with his own hands, crafting her room like something from a storybook. Friends pitched in, and I saw how he glowed with pride. Something stirred in me then, warmth spreading through my chest—but the spark, that magic, still wasn’t there. Simon fought for my heart, never giving up, wrapping me in care, yet I stayed icy as stone.

Then fate struck again. Our son was born frail, sick, with a grim prognosis. The doctors’ pitying looks said it all: "Let him go. It’s kinder." I looked into Simon’s eyes and saw the same terror tearing at my soul. We refused, clinging to each other like survivors in a storm. But a week later, our boy was gone. That night, we wept together—Simon held me, whispering that maybe our son had gone where there was no pain. The loss shattered us, yet bound us tighter than I’d ever imagined. For the first time, I felt it—love. Not just gratitude, not just respect, but love, deep and true. From the ashes of grief, it rose.

Then, as if by miracle, came our boys—two lively, golden whirlwinds. Now our home …
St🅾️ry c🅾️ntinues in 💭c🅾️mments -

14/08/2025

From Hatred to Love: How Our Rivalry Became Something More

My name is Andrew, and what I’m about to share still feels like something out of a film or a romantic novel. But this is my real life—a story I wouldn’t believe if I hadn’t lived it myself.

I was just 14 when she appeared in my world, the girl who became my personal nemesis. Her name was Emily. We attended the same school in Brighton, sat almost side by side, and not a day passed without some clash between us. It was as if we existed in our own private universe of loathing, a bubble of spite reserved just for us.

Our childish battles were absurd but fierce. I’d slip chalk onto her seat; she’d hide my pencil case or mix glue into my paints during art class. Once, while I was in PE, Emily stole my trainers, leaving me to walk home in a pair of floral slippers from the lost-and-found. The whole school laughed. Of course, I retaliated—payback was my specialty. It became a twisted competition, each of us trying to out-annoy the other. Neither of us even remembered how it started. One petty act bled into another, and so it went for years.

Everything changed suddenly, almost unexpectedly, during our final year of school. We were both 18 by then. One afternoon, Emily approached me after lessons. There was no smirk on her face, no venom in her voice. She just said, "Enough. Let’s talk. I’m tired of this." And for the first time in all those years, I heard genuine exhaustion in her words.

We sat on a bench behind the school and talked for nearly an hour. No jabs, no teasing—just an honest conversation. And in that moment, as we truly looked at each other, something new began. It was as if a curse had lifted, and instead of an enemy, I saw a person—vivid, clever, and deeply real. I noticed how her eyes shimmered, how sharp her thoughts were, and how much fire burned inside her.

From that day, everything shifted. We started spending more time together, first as friends. Turned out, we had more in common than we’d ever admitted: the same books, a shared passion for coding, even a love for old British comedies. We talked about everything—school gossip, the meaning of life—and before we knew it, we were walking home together in the evenings, attending competitions as a team, laughing not *at* each other but *with* each other.

I realized I’d fallen for her. Not all at once, but completely. For the very same Emily I’d once sworn to avoid. One day, I gathered my courage and asked her to be with me. She was stunned—who wouldn’t be, after years of fierce rivalry? But she said yes. Just a simple, "Let’s try." And so we did.

Five years have passed since then. We graduated from the University of Manchester with degrees in computer science, moved in together, and now we’re building careers, planning a wedding. We’ve grown up, but in our hearts, we’re still those teenagers—only now, we’ve learned to listen, to turn disagreements into conversations instead of battles.

We still laugh about our school days, though with a hint of embarrassment. Sometimes we marvel at how close we came to missing each other entirely because of stupid pride. But maybe that’s what taught us what real love is—not the storybook kind, but the messy, enduring sort born from understanding, forgiveness, and respect.

Now I know …
St🅾️ry c🅾️ntinues in 💭c🅾️mments -

14/08/2025

Cruel laughter at ordinary people—I know it firsthand.

I graduated with a degree in economics and recently started working as an accountant for a private firm in London. It should have been a dream—good pay, stability, a chance to build a new life in the city. But within days, I was dragged back into memories I’d spent years trying to bury. It was like being thrown into the past, back to university, where I was branded "the country bumpkin" and treated with open disdain.

I’ll never forget how the other girls looked at me—mocking, sneering, as if I were some ridiculous spectacle that had stumbled into their polished, perfect world. No makeup, no trendy clothes, just an old coat and a backpack stuffed with my nan’s pastries instead of designer cosmetics. I wasn’t thinking about appearances—only about catching the right train, boarding the right bus, finding the right lecture hall. There was no room for lipstick in my world—only fear and determination.

I grew up in a tiny village near York. My dad worked in a repair shop, my mum at the post office. I got into university without tutors, connections, or money—just late-night studying, hands stiff from the cold. When I was accepted, I thought the hardest part was over. I was wrong.

Nothing had changed. The city girls still laughed when I trudged through the snow in my worn-out boots—not stylish, but warm. They walked past me as if I were invisible, especially when I stood shivering at the bus stop, cupping my hands to my mouth for warmth. At first, they ignored me. Then they took cruel pleasure in "inviting me for coffee," knowing full well I couldn’t afford it. Their twisted amusement was watching me force a smile and decline.

That’s when I met James. Another misfit—a quiet, lanky bloke from a farming family near Leeds. He understood what it was like to sit in the library with nothing but a sandwich, waiting for the dorm lights to flicker on. We became friends—never more than that, but he was the only one who got it. We still talk, actually. He moved back to help his parents on the farm and now works at the local council. I stayed in London to be near my sister—a single mum who needed me.

Years later, I finally spoke about it for the first time. The reason? One of those "perfect" girls—an old classmate—walked into my office unannounced. Arrogant, chin high, manicured hands, that same air of superiority. She didn’t recognise me at first—or pretended not to. Like I was just some clerk who’d served her coffee once. She handed me paperwork riddled with mistakes. Calmly, I explained: everything was wrong. These errors could ruin her, me, the entire company. Instead of thanking me, she exploded—shouting, jabbing her finger, just like she had back in uni.

For the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eye. My voice was steady. "We don’t shout in this office. Take your documents and leave. Fix them, then come back." She sn**ched the papers and stormed out. And in that moment, I didn’t feel triumph—just relief.

I could’ve retaliated. I could’ve mocked her the way she once mocked me. But I didn’t. Because I’m…
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