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For a while, I really believed I fancied Emma. At least, I thought I liked her enough that I would want to date her. I'd lay awake at night, thinking of her and the way she giggled softly at my jokes, never seeming to appreciate them much or find them really funny. Nevertheless, humoring me and trying to please, just like she did with everyone else. I would close my eyes and picture her small, delicate hand tucking a long streak of blond hair behind the ear, her forehead frowning in puzzlement or dismay. She has had the softest of voices, often prompting her conversationalist either to lean closer as it was barely audible or ask her to repeat herself.

She lived in an old Victorian house across the street from our family home. The house was owned by my father and was filled with the students from the nearby college. The rent was fairly steep, but the house was big and beautiful, allowing seven students to practically have their own flats, sharing only a big kitchen. If something were amiss my father would send me over to fix it for them.

At first I hated the job. I had no time to mess around someone else's living quarters, being a student myself and needing every spare moment for the studies. But once Emma moved in, I didn't mind it much anymore. She was kind and gentle girl, always a bit of a loner, not really making friends with anybody who lived in the house, not even me. Always courteous, she would make certain there was distance between her and the rest of the world, devoting all her time to the books and her ...

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