In every class, no matter how many years have passed, there remains a corea handful of people who still call each other, meet up, keep the circle intact. When a reunion rolls around, the same familiar faces take charge of the venue, the menu, the programmeeverything falls into place as easily as old habit.
When the guest list was drawn up, the discussion sharpened. Of course the teachers had to be invited. But what about the old classmateswould everyone be there?
Everyone will be, Sam said with certainty. Only Tom Whitfield isnt on the list. Were tired of his drunken antics.
How can Tom not be? shouted Lucy, her thickframed glasses catching the light. He will be! Ive spoken to him.
Lucy, Claire, the former class rep, replied quietly, he might get tipsy, and that would be awkward. I saw him just last weekstaggering, barely recognising me.
Lucy sighed. Its fine. I know hes getting ready.
Maybe, she added, for him this reunion means more than it does for any of us put together.
***
Tom at school had been different. Gentle, quiet, affable. He never raised his voice, never hurt anyone. He listened, helped, and was there whenever someone needed him. His notebooks were neat, his handwriting even, his dictations flawless. Physics and maths came to him as if the equations whispered their solutions directly into his head. He almost always walked away from Olympiads with a diplomaperhaps not first place, but always a result. At assemblies he was placed beside the top students; a hand placed over his heart felt less a badge of pride than a blush of modesty.
He dreamed of the Royal Military Academy after Year9. I still recall the day he and his form teacher visited the open day; he came back full of fire, rattling off details of the uniform, the drill, the discipline, the promise of being useful. Everyone believed hed make it.
At home, however, the picture was darker. His father had died long ago, and his mother drank.
On the final school bell, she appeared after a heavy binge, wobbling at the back of the hall, eyes glassy, hair a tangled mess. When Tom was handed his diploma, she shouted, Well done, Tom! My son! He stood, cheeks flaming, fists clenched, as if he could vanish into the floor. His mothers praise struck him like an unexpected blasthe didnt need it in that form.
His plans for the academy crumbled. He feared his younger sister would be taken into care if he left. So he stayed on, taking night jobs, skipping lessons, slipping into a bad crowd, and everything went off the rails.
***
He prepared for the reunion in his own way. He found a grey suittwo sizes too big but clean. He spent ages choosing a shirt, ironing it, checking the buttons. He shaved carefully, tidied his hair, doing the best he could. He didnt drink for two days, wanting to show his true self when the night arrived.
Standing outside the restaurant, he hesitated. He lingered in the shadows, watching his former classmates hug, pull out phones, laugh boisterously, as if time had never passed them by.
He felt nervous, as though a single misstep could shatter the fragile scene of the evening. After an hour of watching, he finally pushed the door open.
***
At the doorway his hair was clean but uncut, his suit still a size too large, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes shy. Lucy called out, Tom, over here! This is your place!
He stepped forward. The room brightened: toasts, laughter, music. Tom drank almost nothing, ate hardly anythingjust sat, listening, watching, offering a faint smile now and then.
When the night drew to a close, Tom stood. His voice trembled; every word felt heavy, as if years of bottled-up feelings were finally breaking free.
Thank you thank you for inviting me this is probably the best thing thats happened to me in the last fifteen years
His eyes glistened, a lump rose in his throat, shoulders tightened, hands shook. He was exposed, vulnerable, like a child believing, for the first time, that he could be accepted as he was.
I Im very grateful sorry if I ever if I hurt anyone
Then the group chorused, Of course, Tom! Were thrilled youre here! It would have been unthinkable not to invite you!
Their warm echo softened his raw honesty with smiles, pats on the back, loud assurances. It was not compassion but a polite veneersmoothtalked sympathy, eyes skimming the surface, care on display.
Lucy watched, thinking, You didnt really want to invite him Yet the most important thingthankfullyTom didnt see the pretense. He believed the words, because he had no reason to doubt them.
He bowed slightly, a little embarrassed, and left among the first to go. He slipped out quietly, without farewells, without looking back.
The room lingered in laughter, old stories resurfaced, updates on jobs and families flew around, glasses clinked, music swelled.
***
Late that night, Lucy walked home and saw Tom on a bench outside his flat, under a dim streetlamp. He was hunched, clearly drunk, eyes glazed, hands resting on his knees. He didnt recognise her.
She moved closer, her heart tightening. Why did you drink, Tom? You held it together tonight, you were yourself why now?
She stared at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the flickering lamp, and thought, How many lives break quietly because no steady hand, no shoulder, no right word was there? If someone had been there, would Tom be sitting here, in his illfitting suit, drunk?
The question hung in the nights silence. No answer came.
