I Dont Hate You
Funny, isnt ithow little things have changed
Clara thumbed nervously at the edge of her sleeve, peering out the window of the black cab. Streets shed once known like her own hands rushed bythose same roads shed thundered down with Alex, grinning, dreaming up a future thick with hope and plans. Seven years. Yes, shed counted. Seven whole years since shed last been home.
Thats you, love, the cabbie announced, politely interrupting her spiral of nostalgia.
The taxi glided to a stop outside the weathered brickwork of her mothers old block of flats, paint flaking, hydrangeas valiantly attempting to brighten up the steps. Clara checked her phone, fished a few crumpled pounds from her purse, paid, and stepped out into the distinctly damp air of her childhood. It smelled different from the bustling jumble of Manchesterit was all cut grass from the park nearby, a hint of baking from the corner bakery (which, surely, was kept afloat by sheer nostalgia), and something else, that unnameable scent everyone just calls home. The bittersweet catch in her chest reminded her she was both delighted and petrified to be back.
Shed convinced herself she was here for a handful of dayspurely to help Mum sift through some paperwork that had been breeding on the kitchen table since Easter. Plus, a chance to stroll familiar streets, to check that time hadn’t reshuffled her old haunts too much. But deepvery deepdown, Clara knew there was another reason, possibly the only reason. She was desperate to see Alex again. And, who knows, maybe her life would finally teeter in a new direction.
It wasnt as though shed religiously stalked his existence. She never asked about him outright. But friendsover coffee or in group chatswould inadvertently drop tidbits: hed got a good job, bought a flat, moved his mum in Every time his name cropped up, her mind would flit (traitorously) to the shape of him, the way hed grown up, what he was doing now. And just as quickly, shed chase the thoughts out, frightened of giving those ghosts room to linger in her heart
*******
Next morning, Clara set off for the town centre. Shed made no grand plansjust wanted to breathe in the sharp air, reacquaint herself with shop windows, and check if the world was still standing more or less where shed left it. She passed the old newsagents (where shed bought comics), the bench outside the chemist (site of countless after-school gossip sessions), and the café where shed messily christened her new blouse with her first ever cappuccino.
Then she saw him.
Alex breezed along the opposite pavement, gazing ahead, lost in thought. Clara froze. Everything in her did an Olympic-level flipthe kind that snatches your breath away and dares it to return. He looked just the same: tall, a little loose-limbed and easy in his walk, hair still in that boyish flop she remembered.
She didnt thinkjust dashed across the road, narrowly missing a honking Mini and the scolding glare of a cyclist. Her feet barely belonged to her. Her heart galloped so loudly she was sure even the pigeons stopped to notice.
Alex! she called when shed caught him outside Tescos.
Her voice wobbledit surprised her how much she still cared. He turned, and nothing. No joyful grin, no flash of hurt. Absolutely nothing.
Clara? he replied, his tone flat, almost bored.
The chill in his voice stung sharper than she expected. Everything shed buried these last seven years came bursting out: her eyes smarted, her words stumbled, tears slid down her cheeks without invitation.
Alex, I I dont deserve this, she blurted. I know Ive got no right to but I Her voice broke, the words all knots. She didnt bother wiping the tears. I love you. I still do. Please forgive me. Please, Alex.
She spilled out the words, breathless, barely pausing, desperate to say them before courage fled. She wrapped her arms around him, held on as if clinging could drag seven years back. For a moment the world vanished: no traffic, no nosy old ladies giving her side-eye, just warmth and wild, reckless hope.
He didnt push her away immediately. She felt a faint tremor through his shoulders, a flicker of his hands as though he almostalmostreturned the embrace. For the tiniest second, she was foolish enough to imagine things could be fixed. That hed carried these same beehive memories in his ribs.
But no. The moment dissolved. Alexs grip firmed on her shoulders: gentle, but implacable, he set her aside. His face was composed, his gaze icy, so grown-up compared to the boy shed left behinda man used to hiding his feelings, his heart behind four inches of British bracing.
Jog on, he murmured.
Quiet, without venom, but final. She was nobody to him, less than nobodya stranger whod wandered onto the wrong stage.
I hate you, he added, his eyes flickering with unmistakable contempt nowjust for a second, just long enough to sting.
He turned and walked away, not once looking back. Clara stood, dazed, as the world around her just kept going. People hurried by, cars hooted at the lights, children laughed in the playpark, a distant man grumbled about the price of sausage rolls. A dog stared up at her, possibly wondering if this meant an extra treat could be scored. No one really noticed herjust a young woman rooted to the spot, tears drying on her cheeks.
The only thing she could hear was the echo of Alexs footsteps, fading. Each second stretched, cruelly, as one stinging truth clattered through her skull: This is it. Really, properly it.
Clara wandered home like a sleepwalker. Her feet were lead, her brain running on the worlds worst autopilot. Inside, everything was a hollow ringing, haunted only by his words.
She shuffled into her mums, not bothering to explain. She just slumped on the wobbly kitchen stool and stared bleary-eyed out the window. Her mum took one glance and said nothing, just let out the softest sigh and clicked the kettle on. Familiar clanking, the scent of real teathings so normal they felt like an act of rebellion against Claras inner devastation. Yet, those old rituals, as ordinary as sliced bread, threaded her back to the present, just enough to breathe.
He didnt forgive me, Clara whispered, white-knuckling her mug so hard it was a wonder it didnt shatter. The steam curled around her face, but she barely noticed. She stared into the coppery tea, watching the light spangle and warp.
Her mother sat beside her, wordless, rubbing Claras shoulder. It was the gesture of a thousand childhood Mondayswhen plasters and snuggles were the only things to mend bruised knees or friendship fallouts. For a moment, Clara felt small again, all her grown-up bravado evaporating like so much weak tea.
You knew it might be like this, her mother said, not unkindly, sadness lining every word.
I did. I just hoped, I suppose. Silly, isnt it?
Not silly. But you made your choice. You hurt Alex, he took it hard He was like someone out of that Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, wasnt he? The boy whose heart froze. No ones broken through since.
Clara let out a thick sigh, letting her mug clatter slightly as she leaned back. Scenes from all those years ago flickered behind her eyes.
Back then, everything seemed so obvious, so simple. Twenty-twoa magical age when futures shimmer and every problem looks surmountable. She had Alexkind, reliable, a human safety blanket. He wasnt flashy, rarely said mushy things, but he always showed up: to listen, to help, to cheer her up.
But there was a problema problem of her own making, really. Alex worked construction, studied part-time, harboured plans to start his own thing someday. Big, sensible dreams, but dreams in need of years and patienceneither of which Clara fancied.
She never wanted to be rich. Just settled. Some guarantee of a roof, a job, the ordinary powers to shape her life. With Alex, it was all too uncertain: side gigs, night classes, grand plans that fizzed but never landed.
So, when her uncle in London dangled a job at his firm, she leaped for it. It felt so logical, so adult. So unlike her.
And then well. Enter Richard. Richard was everything Alex wasnt: twice as old, twice as confident, with the sort of job that involved conference calls and a company car. Theyd crossed paths at a work do; she felt awkward in her new dress among all those slick colleagues while Richard, with his loud laugh and starched shirts, cut through her nerves like a hot knife. He, quite literally, showered her with attention: carefully wrapped bouquets, dinner invitations, posh theatre tickets, and gifts that felt another world from Alexs earnestness.
Clara shrugged off the extravagance at first, but Richard’s insistence wore down her resistanceafter all, what harm in accepting a few nice things? She soon found herself sliding easily into his lifestyle: restaurants with mood lighting, cab rides where the driver actually wore a tie, picking up an expensive scarf just because. It was heady. It was new. And it all whispered, This is what youre meant for.
She didnt just forget Alexshe convinced herself to sneer at him, to parade her new life in a parade of handbags and pointed-toe shoes. She even declared, more than once, that Alex would never amount to anythingwhy would she settle?
One rainy weekend, Clara headed home. It wasnt reconciliation she cravedit was the chance to show Alex what hed lost: a kind of mean smugness that gnawed quietly at her. She chose the best table in the newest High Street café where Alex sometimes went after work and put together the perfect ensembledress courtesy of Richard, sparkling ring, designer bag glinting in the sunshine.
She saw Alex the moment he strolled in. She laughed, a little too loudly, at something her companion said, making sure he saw her. Their eyes met. His were a maze: confusion, hurt, disbeliefreflections of everything she wouldnt admit had vibrated through her too. But instead of averting her gaze, she held it. For the first time, she truly believed her own story: that this was winning. That self-assurance came in a bottle, or a price tag. She left the café believing shed proven something important.
Except, of course, she hadnt. Not to herself.
*******
The victory soured, predictably, over timelike a half-eaten sandwich left out in the rain. Richard, at first so gallant, grew distracted, stingy. The flowers dried up; dinners became meet me after affairs. He started critiquing: Bit loud, arent you? That dress is a touch provincial, love. Dont you think your mates are a little common? His time evaporated, leaving her alone more often than not in a flat that felt emptier for being pretty.
And when Clara tried to snag a sliver of his attention, hed sigh, not even looking up from his phone: Didnt you want this? Whats the problem, then?
She made excuses. Business was tough. He was stressed. She shouldnt complain. But deep down, she knew: she was an ornament, dazzling but disposable. Once novelty faded, so did Richards interest.
So she told herself to endure: the coldness, the loneliness, the hollow rituals. Anything else would mean admitting the brutal truth: shed traded the real deal for polished emptiness. That the only person whod loved her for herself was back home, probably finishing a shift at the building site, planning for a future shed already written off.
The luxury trappings turned stale. Gowns hung limp in the wardrobe, jewellery grew anonymous in its box, the scent of high-end perfume made her queasy. The only thing left was her own reflection, muttering what-ifs at the glass.
Clara found herself gazing out, watching passing strangers, and wondering about other paths. But shed snatch herself from such thoughtsafter all, what good could they do now? She filled lonely evenings with telly and empty glasses of wine, but the ache remained.
Most nights, her mind travelled back to Alexthe feel of his rough but gentle hands, his smile (that rare, real one), the steady tone he used when talking dreams, never making promises he couldnt keep. There and then, she could almost believe anything was possible.
*******
On her third day, Clara wandered through the park where she and Alex had whiled away endless afternoons. The old bench under the sprawling horse chestnut still guarded its patch of worn earth. She remembered Alex, staring up at drifting leaves, once saying: I just want a little house. With big windows for the morning sun. And for it to be always light, and always happy. Shed mocked his romanticism, but now the memory ached with the sting of what should have been.
A voice broke her thoughts. Clara?
She turned. It was Tom, Alexs uni mateawkwardly grinning, usual hair askew. Didnt expect to see you, he said, perching an eyebrow upward. Alright?
She faked her best smile. Just visiting Mum.
He nodded, not prying. Instead, he nodded at the bench: Fancy a sit down? Its murder on my knees otherwise.
Clara found herself listening to Toms gentle updates about everything and nothing, comforted by his undemanding presence.
Tom avoided her eyes for a moment, then nodded towards her, hesitantly: Seen Alex yet?
Clara dropped her gaze, voice barely above a sigh, Yeah. Yesterday.
And?
He doesnt want to know me. He hates me, Clara managed, trying (and failing) to keep her voice level.
Tom exhaled, slumped on the bench, and looked towards the golden blur of autumn. The pause stretched, then he said softly, You really broke him, Clara. Just goneno call, no letter. You could’ve knocked him over with a feather.
Claras hands knotted. Shed always known, but hearing the truthbeing handed it, neat and plainwas a hammer-blow.
I know. Trust me. I do.
He tried to move on. Went out with a few. Nothing stuck. Said he couldnt let you go. Some nights, honestly, I thought hed cave in completely after you sauntered in with Prince Charming.
Clara winced. She pictured Alex, forcing his way through each day, stumbling over every echo. And shed come back, uninvited, driven more by her own guilt than concern for him.
I just thought I was doing the right thing. Wanted certainty.
Tom didn’t correct her or scold. He simply sat, a friendly presence as the wind shook yellow leaves from the trees.
Clara tried to keep her tears hidden, fighting for composure. She whispered, Im not asking for forgivenessGod knows he owes me nothing. I just wanted him to know Im sorry. Every day Im sorry.
Tom turned, not unkind. Maybe he doesnt need to know that, Clara. Leave him beyoure not helping. Yesterday he got blind drunk. Phoned me, barely coherent. Please let him have his peace.
Clara bit her lip, nodding, understanding. Shed stirred up old scarsnot healing, just fresh wounds. In trying to fix, shed only damaged more.
*******
That evening, Clara sat by the window in her mothers flat as the familiar patchwork of streetlights muddled together outside. She watched the city as if it were a snow globe, swirling with memories. She replayed the life she might have had: sharing a battered flat with Alex, tackling lifes messes together, muddling through setbacks, counting little victories that weren’t displayed on social media. She felt sharply the ache for all the words unspoken, the moments unsharedeach more unreachable than the last.
In the morning, she packed slow and careful, as if every t-shirt folded could buy her a few more minutes on home turf. Her mother, watching from the doorway, wore a long-practised looksad but steadfast.
Look after yourself, love, her mum said softly, as Clara slung her suitcase into the hallway.
Clara hugged her, breathing in the scent of home, before stepping out.
At the station, she bought a single to Londona few hours to think amidst strangers felt like the only way forward. She sat by the window, watching as the town shrank from rows of semis to hedgerows, the bakery with its lopsided sign retreating into the distance as though it belonged to someone elses story.
Somewhere among the rows of houses and rain-glossed streets, Alex started to disappearslowly, painfully, almost gracefully. She knew it was final now, no matter how many times she twisted the story in her head.
*******
Six months crept by. Clara got on with things: the job, late-Thursday pints, secrets spilled on friends sofas. Outwardly, everything looked routine. But inside, something had irrevocably shifted. She no longer tried to stuff her guilt behind shopping bags or busy schedules. She owned ither failings, her grief, all the ways in which shed broken her own heart as well as his.
She learned to wake up with quieter ambitions. She told herself, It was what it was. It was wrong, but its done. There was comfort in thatwell, not comfort, exactly, but at least peace, of a sort.
One night, as she stirred a pot of pasta, her phone chimed. A number she didnt know. She wiped her hands, checked the message. Six words. I dont hate you. But I cant forgive.
She sat down on the kitchen floor, phone clutched tightas if pressing it close might recall the shape of the heart on the other end. She didnt know what it meant. She didnt dare hope it was an invitation. But for the first time in years, maybe, she felt the smallest, tiniest thread between them. Fragile, strained, but there. Someone, somewhere, was thinking of hersomeone who hadnt quite slammed shut the last open door.
Clara smiled through tears, a wobbly, uncertain, but very real smile. Maybe this wasnt the end. Maybe someday theyd talknot as the wounded and the wounding, but simply as two people, untangling what went wrong, picking over what remains.
But for nowit was enough to know she lived on in someones thoughts. That she wasnt just a footnote or a mistake, but part of the greater story. And for the first time in years, that was, honestly, enough.
