The Truth Cuts Deep.

 Saturday 13th September 2025

I only made it halfway down the drive with Charlotte this morning before I wanted to scream. She was all smiles, her voice bubbling over with talk of Nigel—how funny he was, how easy he made everything. She even skipped her photo society meeting last night just to go with him to Meadow Hall. A shopping centre, of all places. Sheffield doesn’t exactly sparkle, but she made it sound like magic.

Her eyes lit up when she spoke about him. That stung more than I wanted to admit. I used to be the one she’d look at like that, laughing at nothing, leaning in too close. Now I was just the friend trudging beside her, listening to the soundtrack of her new life.

I cut away at lunch. Said I needed a break, but really I just couldn’t stand to hear another word about Nigel. Rob was leaning against his garden fence, smoking like is often the case, and so at lunch I joined him.

“You look like you’re about to bite someone’s head off,” he said.

“She won’t stop talking about him,” I muttered. “It’s Nigel this, Nigel that. Why do I even bother coming here?”

He gave me a long look, like he was trying to read something written on my face. Then he said, “You’re not really mad at her. You’re mad at yourself.”

I bristled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You had the chance,” he said. “Could’ve learned to ride with her. Could’ve gone to those photo society meetings. Could’ve shown her you cared about the things she cared about. But you didn’t. And now someone else has. That’s on you, not her.”

His words hit harder than I wanted. Because I knew he was right. I’d thought she’d always be there, waiting for me to catch up, waiting for me to—what? To admit what I never dared to say?

The truth slipped out like a crack in the dam. I wasn’t jealous of Nigel because he was fun. I was jealous because he was holding her hand in the cinema, brushing her shoulder in a crowded shopping centre, leaning close enough to catch the smell of her hair. All the things I’d thought about but never done.

From the training ring came her laughter—Charlotte’s laughter—light and bright, twining with Lyn’s. I wanted it to be mine again. I wanted her eyes to turn to me, to see me.

“Maybe I should just quit the stables,” I said, my throat tight. “Let them get on with it.”

Rob flicked his cigarette into the dirt and ground it out with his boot. “Or,” he said quietly, “you could stop hiding and do something about it.”

I couldn’t answer. My chest ached with the weight of what I wanted and the fear of losing even the scraps I still had.