I dont hate you
– Nothing’s really changed, has it?
Clara fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, her eyes fixed on the blurred London streets beyond the taxi window. The city rolled past roads she’d run along as a girl with Matthew, laughing with him and dreaming up futures that now seemed impossibly distant. Seven years. Seven entire years since shed been home.
Were here, the cabbie broke in gently, his words a quiet buffer to her thoughts.
The taxi slowed to a stop beside the entrance of the old terraced house. Clara automatically checked for her phone, took out the cash, handed over fifteen pounds, thanked the driver, and stepped into the soft drizzle. The slam of the taxi door echoed up the street as she paused, letting the air of home fill her lungs. Everything here had a different texture to it not like the relentless, humming expanse of Birmingham, where she lived now. Here, the air was thick with cut grass from the park next door, bread baking from the little bakery shed loved as a child, and something indescribable the unmistakable scent of home. Her heart ached in that moment, painfully sweet; excitement and fear merging as she wondered what lay ahead.
She was only back for a few days. Formally, it was to help her mum sort out some paperwork that had piled up. Secretly, she needed to walk the familiar streets, see if anything remained as she remembered it but beneath that was a deeper reason, perhaps the truest one. She desperately hoped to see Matthew again. Maybe it might change everything.
Clara knew he still lived nearby. Not that shed ever asked anyone directly, but mutual friends sometimes let slip little updates hed changed jobs, landed a good position, bought a flat, moved his mum in with him. Every time she heard something about him, a ghost of him would appear in her mind, and shed almost let her heart ache over what he might look like now, who hed become. Then shed push it away. She couldnt afford to hope too much.
*****
The next afternoon Clara strolled through the city centre, aimless. Shed made no particular plans she just wanted to let the place live around her, see it in the daylight, feel the familiar rhythms. She wandered slowly, peeking into shop windows, smiling as old memories flickered up: the newsagent where shed bought comics, the bench where she and her mates gossiped after school, the café where her cappuccino in sixth form had nearly ruined her new blouse. It was all the same, yet all a little different.
Thats when she saw him.
Matthew was on the opposite pavement, head down, brow furrowed in thought. For a frozen moment, time folded in on itself he looked exactly the same: tall, that same easy stride shed adored as a teenager, his hair barely different from the way she remembered.
Almost without thinking, Clara darted across the road, stepping quickly though the lights flashed amber and a horn blared in the distance. She didnt care. All she heard was the thunder of her own heart.
Matthew! she cried as she caught up with him in front of the grocers.
Her voice quivered. She hadnt expected to be this nervous. He turned and nothing. No spark of joy in his eyes, no anger. Just nothing.
Clara? he said, calm, almost detached.
That tone hit harder than she could have guessed. Seven years of tangled hopes burst out all at once; her eyes pricked with tears, her words stumbled.
Matthew I Im so sorry, she stammered, struggling just to speak. I know Ive no right to talk to you, not after what I did. But I I still love you. I always have. Please please forgive me.
She poured it all out in a rush, scared that if she stopped even for an instant, shed never finish. All the apologies and explanations shed hoarded for so long became a single stream of desperate confession. She hugged him, crushed herself against him as if she could gather up all the lost time, force the world back to what it had been.
He didnt immediately step away. For a brief heartbeat, his shoulders dropped and his hands hovered uncertainly, as if he might, just might, hold her again. Hope flared inside her maybe there was a way back, maybe the years hadnt truly erased everything.
But then, gently, he gripped her shoulders and pried her arms from him, firm but not unkind. His face was remote, his gaze steady and cold. Gone was the boy shed once melted into laughter with, the shared secrets and plans. Now he was a man, feelings hidden far behind new walls.
Go, he whispered in her ear.
He said it almost softly, nothing in his voice. Not anger, not affection, just indifference. He might as well have been talking to a stranger.
I hate you, he said a moment later, and only then, for the briefest flicker, did contempt flash across his face.
He turned and strode away. Clara stood numbly, as though struck. The street hummed on: people hurrying past, horns honking, children laughing somewhere far off. A few glances from the crowd, puzzled by the sight of a woman frozen on the footpath, tears on her cheeks, but she felt none of it.
All she could hear was his retreating footsteps and the fractured, frantic rhythm of her breath. Each moment stretched impossibly long, one thought drumming inside her head: this is the end. For good.
She stumbled home, feet heavy, eyes unfocused. Her mind was empty, nothing but the echo of his words.
Inside, she found her mother in the kitchen, and Clara said nothing as she dropped onto a chair, staring vacantly out the window. Her mother just sighed, as though shed seen this coming and went to put the kettle on. The normal sounds water boiling, the scent of strong, sweet tea seemed almost absurd in contrast to what raged inside Clara. Yet that very ordinariness ferried her, gently, back to earth.
He hasnt forgiven me, Clara whispered at last, clutching the warm mug in her hands, letting the heat soak into her fingers. She barely felt it, just watched the swirl of steam on the amber surface.
Her mother sat beside her, stroking her shoulder the same way she had when Clara was a child gentle, wordless comfort. Suddenly she was little again, bruised knees and failed friendships, and it didnt matter that she was meant to be an adult now.
You knew this might happen, her mum said, not sharply, just quietly.
I did, Clara nodded finally, voice heavy with old resignation. But I hoped. Foolish, isnt it?
Not foolish, her mother replied softly. But it was your decision. You hurt him, Clara. Took years for him to mend. He was like the boy in that winter fairytale, wasnt he? Nobody could reach his heart again.
Clara released a deep breath, setting her cup aside, slumping in her chair as old memories of that last year pulsed behind her eyes.
Back then, everything had seemed so simple. She was twenty-two, life sprawling ahead, colours bright, nothing impossible. Matthew was kind, utterly reliable, someone you could build a life with. He showed his love in small gestures, not flowery speeches, and always stood by her in a crisis.
But there was one problem, or so she thought. Matthew worked long days on site, studied nights hoping to start his own business. His dreams were good, solid, but required patience, and patience was something she didnt have much of then.
She didnt want extravagance just security. She craved certainty, a life where she could plan a year, five, ten ahead, where stability was a guarantee and not hope. With Matthew, everything felt so unfinished: endless shifts, evening classes, future plans that stayed just plans.
When her uncle in London offered her a job at his firm, Clara said yes. No hesitation, no sleepless nights. It was tangible, real a door she wouldnt have a chance to open again.
There was another part to it, one she rarely admitted. In those first months in London, she met Simon older, successful, confident, a man used to getting what he wanted. Their meeting happened almost by accident at a work event, Clara feeling awkward and out of place among polished colleagues. Simon noticed her immediately, came over with easy charm, asked about her life and ambitions, made her laugh.
He wasnt stingy with his attention. First, it was flowers not lavish bouquets but tidy, elegant bunches with little cards. Then dinner invitations to places Clara had only admired through the windows; theatre tickets, silk scarves, dainty jewellery, shoes with heels shed only imagined owning. Each gift came paired with comments about how she deserved more, how she should seize what fate offered.
At the start, Clara resisted. She felt uneasy accepting things, protested she didnt need such fuss. But Simon was persistent, always assuring her it was nothing. Over time, she eased into accepting. The new life dazzled her: evenings in fine restaurants, the quick ease of a taxi home, never having to check the price tag before buying a dress for work. For a while, it was like living in a wonderful dream.
Before long, she and Simon were seeing each other, not because she burned for him but because his world promised certainty. With Simon, she didnt have to worry about tomorrow, about money for the rent, about whether life would ever properly start. He took control, wrapping her in the safety of comfort.
She liked it, more than she was able to admit so much so that she buried any thoughts of Matthew, even began to look down on him, scoffing that he’d never get anywhere in life.
Once, Clara went back to her hometown not to see Matthew or clear the air, but to parade her new life, to prove shed chosen well, risen above the uncertainty that once defined them. Somewhere deep down, perhaps she wanted him to see what he’d missed out on, that she hadnt made a mistake.
She planned every detail of her visit: picked the busiest café on the high street somewhere Matthew often popped into after work. She wore a designer dress, a birthday gift from Simon, cinched and immaculate. The ring glittered on her hand, another present, and her arm was hooked through the handle of a bag from an Italian label purchased just the day before.
When Matthew entered, Clara spotted him and, with forced laughter, turned so he’d see her. Their eyes met she caught the confusion, the hurt, and the flickering anger in his gaze, but she met it without shifting.
In that moment, she convinced herself shed won, that her choice was right, that shed achieved what was necessary: a real future, comfort, security. But after he left and she was left with only her ring, her bag and the chatter of her companion, a hollow wave swept through her. The luxury felt strange and thin, her laughter quieter than it had been.
Was it really worth it?
*****
It took time, but she learned the cost of her victory. At first Simon remained as generous as ever, but slowly, things shifted. Affection became constraints; compliments were replaced by sharp remarks. Instead of flowers or gifts, Simon would text: Go treat yourself to something nice. Her hair, her laugh, her friends nothing escaped scrutiny.
His presence grew rarer, sometimes disappearing for days, sometimes weeks, leaving her alone in a flat hed chosen. Clara spent many nights with nothing but the tick of the clock for company. When she tried to talk to him, to explain she needed more, hed brush her off, eyes averted.
You wanted this life. What else do you want?
She made excuses for him stress, exhaustion, business. She tried to believe it was temporary, that she was overreacting, but at her core she saw it: she was just another ornament, bright and new, until the novelty faded and he lost interest.
She endured. She put up with the cold silences and biting comments, all because admitting the truth meant admitting her greatest mistake that the world shed chosen was empty, that the only person whod truly loved her was the one shed thrown away.
As the months went by, even the trappings of comfort lost their shine. Dresses hung untouched; jewellery sat forgotten in its box. She grew to grudge the sight of smart restaurants, the scent of expensive perfume became sickly-sweet.
More and more, shed catch herself watching people in the street and asking, What if? She never let the thought finish.
During those lonely, silent evenings, she finally understood: a life built on security, without meaning, without someone to share it with, was pointless. She remembered Matthew his strong, work-worn hands; his gentle, true smile; his way of speaking about the future, hopes firmly rooted in the possible and honest. She had never needed to fear anything with him.
*****
Three days into her visit, Clara walked to the park where she and Matthew used to pass time on the benches under the maples. She found their bench; theyd spent hours there, talking about everything and nothing, laughing at their own jokes. She remembered once, with leaves drifting down, how Matthew had said, I want us to have a house of our own. With tall windows, sunlight every morning, a place filled with light and happiness. To her, it had been just a dream. Now, it seemed like something shed lost forever.
She stopped, took in the sharp air, collected her thoughts. Then she heard a familiar voice:
Clara?
She turned. It was Tom, Matthews old mate. He looked surprised, but grinned in recognition.
Didnt think Id see you here, he said cheerfully. Howve you been?
Clara hesitated. She tried to sound casual, but her voice wavered. Alright, she managed a small, braver smile than she felt. Just here to visit mum.
Tom nodded thoughtfully but didnt press. Instead, he indicated the nearby bench.
Care to sit? I was just out for a walk.
They strolled together, Tom chatting about changes in town, lifes little happenings. His presence was comforting, drawing Clara out of her shell. She gave short answers, mostly thinking how strange it was to be home and run into someone from her old world.
Tom paused for a beat, then straightened, gentler in tone. Run into Matthew yet?
Clara dropped her gaze, watching the yellowed leaves curling at her feet. She remembered yesterday the cold look, the curt words. Yes, she whispered. Yesterday.
And? Toms question was soft.
He he wants nothing to do with me, Clara admitted. The words cut her on the way out. He hates me.
Tom sighed, sinking onto the bench beside her, staring down the path flanked with golden trees, as childrens shouts echoed softly from a playground.
You vanished, Clara. Not a call, not a letter. For him, that was like being stabbed in the back.
Clara clenched her fist, fighting tears. Shed always known, but hearing it confirmed by someone else still stung.
I know, she said quietly, I know its my fault.
Tom didnt scold or blame her, just kept on, matter-of-fact. He tried to forget you. Saw other people, but it never worked. He told me no one ever measured up. Especially after that little show you put on last time Tom shook his head.
Clara nodded, feeling the full weight of her choices pressing down. She had no right to make excuses. I never dreamed itd hurt so much. I thought I was doing what was best. I just wanted to feel safe.
Tom was silent, simply offering her space to sit with her own thoughts as the world carried on wind tossing the leaves, childrens laughter softening the autumn air.
Finally Clara spoke, voice shaking. Im not asking him to forgive me. I just wanted him to know that I regret it. Every day I regret what I did. The thoughts dont leave me.
Tom studied her, measured his response. Maybe he doesnt need to know that. Leave him be now, Clara. Coming here, stirring things up youre only making it worse. Its taken him a long time to put himself back together.
Clara bit down on her lip. She knew Tom was right. Her sudden reappearance had only reopened old wounds. Seeking forgiveness might have been more selfish than shed realized.
*****
That evening, Clara sat by the window of her childhood home as the city lights flickered on gold and white, splintered by the rain. She tried to imagine what life would have been: a small flat shared with Matthew, his business growing slow but steady, the rituals of a daily life together. How many laughs, kind words, or loving touches had she missed? But wishes couldnt rewrite the years. She knew that now, with an icy clarity.
The next day, Clara packed up, unhurried, as if delaying the moment of departure. Her mum watched her silently, loving sadness showing in her eyes.
Take care of yourself, her mum murmured as Clara slung her bag over her shoulder.
She nodded, kissed her mothers cheek, and paused for an extra heartbeat at the door, soaking in every detail the scent of washing powder, the faint trace of biscuits. Then she left.
At Paddington, she bought a ticket back to Birmingham. A few hours alone on the train with strangers perhaps long enough to let her mind settle. The train rolled out, houses and parks sliding past. People scurried under brollies or juggled shopping bags, living their ordinary city lives. But it was all impossibly far away.
Somewhere beyond those windows lived the only person shed ever truly loved. Shed never given him the chance to say goodbye, never explained. Now he was unreachable, however much her heart spun fairy stories of a second chance.
*****
Six months passed. Clara kept on in Birmingham, working, filling her days, meeting friends for coffee. To everyone around her, it seemed like shed never left her old routines. But inside, everything had shifted. She no longer tried to run from her past or suffocate the pain shed caused. She learned to look back without flinching, to own her mistakes. It wasnt relief or happiness, but at least she could start to breathe again, allow herself a measure of peace.
One evening, preparing dinner, her phone buzzed. Floury-fingered, she wiped her hands, glanced down at an unknown number. Just one line on the screen:
I dont hate you. But I cant forgive you, either.
Clara froze, gripping her phone as her heart jolted then raced on. She sank to the floor, the phone pressed to her chest as if it could carry a heartbeat from miles away.
She didnt know what it meant: a new start, a last goodbye, or just something in-between. For the first time, though, she felt a thread remained between them; thin, fragile, ready to snap but there.
Someone, somewhere, was thinking of her. Someone, despite everything, hadnt shut the door entirely.
Clara smiled through tears, half hopeful, half sad. Maybe one day theyd speak again, not as broken halves but as people whod found their way. Maybe together, maybe apart but at least with understanding.
For now, knowing she was not erased from his story was enough. Sometimes that small mercy is all the comfort the world can give.
And I realised: you cant undo the past, or demand forgiveness. But you can own your choices, keep moving forward, and perhaps forgive yourself enough to start again.
