Forgive Me, If You Can, My Dear
Squeezing into the crowded minibus, Lily grabbed the nearest empty seat before anyone else could. The day had started badly—her hairdryer broke, her husband grumbled about burnt eggs, and she’d rushed out without breakfast. Normally, she’d ride to work with him, but his car was in the garage for repairs. The journey was long, so she turned to the window, watching the blur of people and buildings pass by.
Something unsettled her, though she couldn’t say what. Then she felt eyes on her. Turning, she met a familiar grey gaze—Roman, her first and ill-fated love. He smiled.
“Hello,” he said, sitting just across the narrow aisle. “I recognised you straight away. You haven’t changed much.”
“Hello,” she replied. “I never expected to see you here.”
“How’ve you been?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, though she secretly hoped he’d admit his life was miserable—that his wife had left him, or something like it. Instead, he said:
“I’m doing well. My wife works, my son’s just finished university and gone off to the seaside.” He glanced out the window and stood abruptly. “Sorry, this is my stop.” He stepped off the minibus, waved through the window, and was gone.
Lily sat stunned, turning his words over in her mind. It wasn’t true that she hadn’t changed—she’d been a slender girl then, now a woman in her forties, softer but not overly so. Still, the compliment pleased her.
Her heart ached. She’d dreamed of this meeting for years—imagined herself rich and successful, him wretched and pitiful. Yet he wasn’t the skinny lad she remembered, but a solid, balding man—yet his eyes were the same, and he didn’t seem unhappy at all.
“Of course it had to be today,” she thought, “when everything’s already gone wrong.”
She rode on, lost in reflection. Why had fate thrown him her way? All it did was stir up old wounds. She remembered their stolen moments—wildflowers he’d picked for her, whispered promises, kisses under the stars. But then her stop came, and she hurried to work.
The day dragged. She worked half-heartedly, her mind elsewhere.
“That meeting with Roman’s knocked me right off balance,” she mused on the way home.
As soon as she stepped inside, the phone rang.
“Lily, I’m picking the car up from the garage after work,” said her husband, James. “Then I’ll stop by the shed. Don’t wait up for dinner.”
She had no appetite anyway. Sinking onto the sofa, she switched on the telly but saw nothing. Memories flooded back—especially the bitter ones. Their final fight had been over something trivial, but then she’d seen him with another girl, her arm linked tightly with his.
Lily had met Roman through her friend Veronica, his neighbour. Veronica fancied herself an expert in love, always doling out advice. Lily should’ve followed her own heart, but she’d listened to Veronica instead.
With Roman, she’d known her first love—terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He’d read her poems he’d written himself, and she’d believed nothing could ever sound sweeter. She thought it would last forever.
Then, one day, as they walked arm in arm, a woman smiled at them. Roman laughed, slipping his arm off Lily’s shoulders.
“Hello, Mum! What are you doing here?”
Lily flushed. She hadn’t realised it was his mother.
“Just visiting Gran—she’s poorly.” His mother turned to Lily. “You must be Lily. Roman’s told me about you. Don’t be shy, love.”
For a time, things were perfect. Until Veronica meddled again.
“Lily, you should pick a fight with him,” she’d advised. “Make-ups are the sweetest part. He’ll love you more for it.”
Lily played along at first—starting petty arguments just to reconcile. But soon she thought, *Why? I don’t want this.* She stopped listening to Veronica.
Then came her birthday. She waited for Roman, but he never came. Only Veronica showed up.
“Happy birthday! Roman won’t be here—his gran’s ill, so he’s gone to help her. No idea when he’ll be back.”
No mobiles then, so Lily couldn’t check. A week passed. She decided to visit his mother, who’d always been kind to her. On the way, near the pub, she spotted Roman with his mates. He looked at her—then away. His friends laughed.
Lily froze, then fled home and wept.
“Why? Why would he do this?” Pride stopped her from confronting him—though later, she regretted it.
Veronica soon delivered the final blow. “Still moping? He’s with someone else now. Forget him.”
Lily saw them together herself—Roman and another girl. Hope lingered, but nothing changed.
Then, one spring day, she stumbled upon a wedding procession. The groom was Roman. Their eyes met as she passed.
“Hello,” he said casually, still smiling.
Her heart crumpled. She walked on, numb. At home, she sobbed until resolve hardened inside her. *These are the last tears I’ll shed for him.*
And they were. She left town, started anew. A year and a half later, she married James—a good, steady man who loved her. She wasn’t sure if she loved him, but in time, she understood: fate had given her a kind husband, two wonderful sons, and peace.
Years later, visiting her mother, she ran into Veronica—aged, worn, alone.
“Lily! Look at you—happy, glowing. And me…” She sighed. “I’m glad I saw you. I need to confess something. Forgive me, if you can.”
“What for?” Lily asked, puzzled.
Veronica’s voice trembled. “I lied to Roman—told him you were with another man. I introduced him to his wife too. Made sure she got pregnant so he’d marry her. I was jealous. You had what I never did.”
Lily was stunned. “Why?”
“Breaking someone’s heart shatters you too,” Veronica said bitterly. “The pieces cut deep.”
Back then, Lily hadn’t forgiven her. But today, seeing Roman, she realised she’d let go. That meeting had been a gift—a chance to see how things truly stood. She had a good life. Who knew what might’ve been with Roman?
Some bridges are best left burned.
