**Diary Entry**
It all began with a chance meeting—on Brighton beach, where the August sun mingled with the salty breeze and the scent of sunscreen. She was tall, striking, with thick chestnut hair and a dazzling smile. The moment I saw her, I was drawn. I walked over, and from then on, we were inseparable. The holiday ended, but our story was only just beginning.
Olivia and I lived in neighbouring towns. For five years, we spent every weekend together—weekdays were for work and routines, but weekends meant the countryside, apple orchards, warm tea, and pastries from the village bakery. She often stayed at my place—it was cosier, quieter. Olivia lived with her son; I was alone in my parents’ old flat. I’d told her I was divorced, though truthfully, it was only finalised later. She believed me, even insisted: “Get it done by tomorrow.” So I did. For her.
Five years passed. Her son married and moved out. Olivia was alone now, and the weekdays grew heavier, duller. Only those weekends at my cottage kept the loneliness at bay—the orchard, the basket of apples, the quiet evenings with tea on the veranda.
That evening was no different. Warm air, sliced apples steeping in the teapot, fresh scones, soft laughter. And then—the phone rang. I answered. Olivia barely noticed at first, but the call dragged on. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.
Then she recognised the voice. My ex-wife.
Questions swarmed Olivia’s mind. They lived in the same city. Shared a daughter. Had he been seeing her all along? Meeting secretly? Spending time together?
She couldn’t hold back. When I finally hung up, she erupted—accusations, hurts, all the unspoken grievances pouring out. I stayed quiet. Then I stood abruptly, knocking over the chair.
“Leave,” I said lowly, and walked out.
Dazed, she packed her things but didn’t go to the station—she went to my flat. She still had a key. Made dinner. Tidied up. I came back past midnight, cold, distant. Didn’t greet her like usual. She stayed. For three days, she tried to soften me, to fix things, to please. I ignored her. Didn’t send her away, but didn’t let her in, either.
Eventually, she left—only to return that weekend.
I opened the door.
“Hello, Jack,” she said. “I came to tell you… there’s someone else. A widower. I don’t know what will come of it. But… be happy.”
And she was gone.
I stood there, stunned. The woman I’d once upended my life for had left me in the same solitude I’d known before her.
And that’s how it goes. Sometimes the brightest love crumbles under a single doubt, one phone call, one unspoken wound. The past never forgives if you carry it with you. It always finds a way back—and takes what’s left.
