From Point A to Point B, two pedestrians set out…
Returning to the town of your childhood stirs mixed emotions. Both of you have changed. You’ve grown older, while the town has grown greener. The same streets and houses, yet they look different—more polished, somehow. The only thing unchanged is the pockmarked roads, still scarred by recent construction work never quite finished.
James walked the familiar streets, feeling like a teenager again. He wanted to sprint to the house, fly up to the third floor without touching the steps, and ring the bell. His mum would answer and scold him—”Forgot your keys again, did you? And look at those torn trousers!”—while the scent of something delicious wafted from the kitchen. He could almost smell it now, that aching familiarity.
He hadn’t warned his father he was coming. The decision had been impulsive. After Mum’s death, Dad had remarried quickly. James hadn’t forgiven him for it. Even now, he wasn’t sure if his father would want to see him. He still hadn’t decided whether to knock.
A man gets lonely, but James couldn’t stand the thought of a stranger running their home. Maybe his father was happy with her—but to James, she meant nothing.
He walked on, thinking coming back had been a mistake. What was the point of dredging up the past, stirring old ghosts? You can’t go back. You can’t change anything. The arguments with his ex-wife, the divorce—it had all drained him. Well, he was here now. No use regretting it. He could leave on the night train. Not like anyone was waiting for him anywhere else.
James glanced around, noting what had worsened and what had improved. Memories flickered like an old film reel—unexpected things he’d thought long forgotten. His teenage years sprang to life: first love, jealousy, despair. That was the past he associated with this place.
He caught himself scanning strangers’ faces, hoping to recognise someone. But no one knew him, and he knew no one. Once, stepping outside meant bumping into half a dozen people. His father used to say you could measure a town by how many familiar faces you saw. The more you recognised, the smaller the place. He’d called it a “village”—but then, everyone had known Dad.
A vegetable stall still stood on the corner, just as it had years ago. A youngish woman worked there now, wearing a sleeveless summer dress with a deep neckline. When she bent forward, the fabric slipped, revealing smooth skin. Her apron accentuated her waist. She moved efficiently, without wasted effort.
James stared, unthinking, until she glanced up and smiled. “Emily?” he realised with a jolt. Of all people…
Maybe this was why he’d come back. Her smile faded into wariness. He must look ridiculous—loitering, gawping at a market stall. But his feet refused to move.
“Can I help you? The melons are sweet today, fresh greens, plums…”
Time had been kind. She hadn’t lost her figure, and the outdoor work had bronzed her skin. Her hair was uncoloured, still her own. Any wrinkles were invisible from here. She studied him just as intently, then glanced around nervously.
James realised he had to speak before she called for help.
“Emily, remember me? We were neighbours. Still in the same house?”
She shook her head, unimpressed.
“I’ve changed. Hardly the boy you knew. Older. James.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. “Good Lord—where’ve you come from?”
“Just visiting.”
“Does your dad know?”
“No. Haven’t decided if I’ll see him. Got a room at The Red Lion.”
A sharp voice cut in. “Are you buying or not? Some of us have places to be.” An older woman glared, suspicion in her eyes. James nodded at Emily—*I’ll wait*.
“Sorry,” Emily said brightly. “What can I get you?”
As she weighed tomatoes, her eyes kept darting to James, as if checking he hadn’t vanished.
Finally, the impatient woman left—only for a man to step up. James watched from the pavement.
“We’ll have to talk later,” he said when the man moved on. He scribbled his number. “Call me when you finish. Let’s catch up.”
She tucked the note away as another customer approached.
James walked off. After a few steps, he turned. Emily was watching him, smiling. The sight stirred something in him. Only now did he realise—this was why he’d come.
And the film reel in his mind spun faster…
***
“We’ve new neighbours,” Mum said over supper.
“Who?” Dad asked without interest.
“A family. Our age. Polite, from the look of them. They’ve a daughter—seventeen, maybe.”
“You’ve met them already?”
Mum laughed. “Mrs. Jenkins from downstairs told me.”
“I saw the girl,” James blurted.
His parents’ eyes snapped to him.
“And?”
“Pretty,” he muttered, flushing.
Mum rolled her eyes. “Far too young for that nonsense.” To Dad, she said, “We should take them something—maybe a pie?”
Dad agreed.
James had only glimpsed the girl—careering down the stairs, nearly crashing into her. She must’ve been visiting Annie from the fourth floor, who was in the year above him. *She’ll be living next door.* The thought made his skin prickle.
He excused himself, claiming to be full, and escaped to his room to dream about her. Next morning, after his parents left, he combed his unruly hair and went to introduce himself.
A sleepy, dishevelled girl opened the door.
“What d’you want?”
“Just saying hello.”
“Couldn’t wait till afternoon?”
“Sorry. I’ll come back—”
“Oh, whatever.” She waved him in. “You know computers?”
“A bit.”
“Shame. Mine’s got a virus. Wait here. Or put the kettle on.”
She disappeared. Running water sounded. The flat was a mirror of his—boxes everywhere. A floaty dress lay atop one. He lifted it, sniffed. Laundry powder. Disappointed, he set it down and headed to the kitchen.
She returned, freshened up.
“Your name?”
“James.” His voice cracked.
“Emily. Tea?”
He nodded.
She spoke between sips. She’d left school at sixteen—”Got sick of it.”
“What about you?”
“Fine.” He hesitated. “Which year are you in?”
“Trying to guess my age?”
He was.
“Eighteen next month. You’re fourteen?”
After that, he visited daily, waiting for her after his classes.
One day, she blocked the door.
“Parents home?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I’m not alone.”
Jealousy burned. He avoided her for weeks until she came to him, distant. He babbled, showing off, but she left halfway through.
“Ran into Emily at the clinic,” Mum said one evening.
Dad frowned. “Sick?”
“Worse, I think.”
Dad sighed. “At her age, it happens.”
“She’s barely eighteen!”
“Her parents are never home,” Mum fretted.
*Pregnant.* The word pulsed in James’ skull.
Next day, he rushed home and banged on her door.
“Why aren’t you in class?”
“None of your business.”
“I *know*.” He glared. “Want me to sort him out?”
Her face paled. “How—?”
“Mum saw you. She won’t tell. I’ll marry you when I’m older.”
She didn’t laugh, but her stare made him shrink.
“You’ll forget me.”
“Never.”
“Then leave. Don’t come back.”
New Year passed. One morning, he heard her crying. He knocked.
Red-eyed, she let him in.
“Why?”
She wiped her nose. “Him—with someone else.”
He hugged her. She buried her face in his shoulder. Then—impulsively—he kissed her.
She kissed back—before shoving him away.
On the landing, he collided with his mother.
At home, she screamed at him, threatened to ship him off to Aunt Margot in Manchester. “You’re too young! This isn’t love—it’s hormones!”
He barely recognised her. They sent him away anyway.
He didn’t return. Mum visited, called often. Then: “Emily’s married.”
No reason to go back. He moved on—school, uni, a career. The women he dated all vaguely reminded him of Emily. His marriage failed. After Mum died, Dad remarried. James never visited again.
***
In his hotel room, James stared at the ceiling until sleep took him. The phone jarred him awake.
“I’m free now,” she said. He wondered what she meant.
“Meet me halfway.”
“Two pedestrians leave from Points A and B. How long till they meet?”
“Twenty-five years,” he said. “TimeThey met halfway, both knowing this time they wouldn’t let go.