But nothing had really changed, as she would come to realise years later when looking back on those events.
Emma fidgeted nervously with the edge of her sleeve, gazing out of the taxi window. Beyond the glass, the streets she had known since childhood passed by the same ones she had once run along with Oliver, laughing and dreaming about the future. Seven years… A full seven years had passed since she had last been in Bristol.
“We’ve arrived,” the driver’s voice sounded, softly breaking into her reflections.
The taxi came to a gentle stop outside the entrance of an old five-storey block of flats. Emma mechanically checked that her phone was in place, pulled out some money, settled the fare and got out of the car. The door slammed shut, and for a moment she paused where she stood, inhaling the air of Bristol. It was indeed different unlike the large metropolis where she now resided. Here, every smell, every shade of sound seemed to stir something profound within her. There was the scent of freshly mown grass from the nearby park, a touch of freshly baked bread from the little bakery on the corner, and something else elusive that could only be described as home. This mix caused her heart to tighten painfully and yet sweetly, as though she was at once joyful and fearful of what awaited her.
She had come for only a few days. Officially, to visit her mum and assist with documents that had required attention for some time. She also wished to stroll through familiar spots, as if verifying whether they had stayed just as she remembered. Yet deep in her soul lurked another motive perhaps the primary one. She yearned desperately to see Oliver! And who could say, perhaps her life would take a turn?
Emma knew he lived close by. Not that she had intentionally followed his life no, she had never inquired about him outright. But friends, upon seeing her or connecting through social networks, would occasionally let his name slip. In this way, she caught fragments of information: he had switched jobs and now occupied an excellent position, he had purchased a flat, he had brought his mum to live with him… Each time she heard news of him, she briefly pictured how he might appear now, what occupied him, what occupied his thoughts. But she quickly dismissed these ideas, fearing to allow them too much room in her heart…
On the following day, Emma decided to take a walk through the city centre. She had no particular plans she simply wanted to breathe the urban air, observe the familiar places in daylight, feel the rhythm of the streets that had once been part of her life. She walked unhurriedly, peering into shop windows, smiling fleetingly as she recognised something long forgotten: there was the news kiosk where she used to buy comics, the bench where she and her friends sat after school, the cafe where she had first tried a cappuccino and nearly spilled it on her new blouse.
And suddenly she saw him.
Oliver was walking on the opposite side of the street. He did not notice her he looked ahead, his head slightly tilted as if pondering something. Emma froze. Everything inside her flipped so abruptly that for a moment she even forgot how to breathe. He had not changed at all still the same height, with that same light, slightly relaxed gait she remembered from her youth. The same silhouette, the same movements, even the same hairstyle.
Without thinking, she dashed across the road. The traffic light flashed amber, a sharp horn sounded from somewhere, but she barely heard it. Her legs carried her forward on their own, her heart pounding so loudly it seemed audible across the entire street.
“Oliver!” she called out when she caught up with him by the shop.
Her voice trembled she had not realised how nervous she was. He turned around and… nothing. No joy in his gaze, no anger. Nothing at all.
“Emma?” he said calmly, almost indifferently.
This tone so even, devoid of emotion struck harder than she had expected. Everything that had built up inside over seven years suddenly burst out. Her eyes filled with tears, her voice shook, and she could no longer stop.
“Oliver, I… I’m so sorry,” the young woman managed to say, struggling to find the words. “I know I have no right to even approach you, but I…” she sobbed, tried to pull herself together, but tears rolled down her cheeks, and she did not even try to wipe them away. “I love you. I still love you. Forgive me. Please, forgive me!”
She spoke quickly, disjointedly, as if afraid that if she stopped, she would not be able to continue. So many things swirled in her head justifications, explanations, pleas but now only the most important words escaped. Those she had kept inside for so many years.
She embraced him, pressing herself tightly against his chest, as if this motion could restore what had been lost seven years ago. In that moment, the noisy street, the passers-by, time itself ceased to exist for her only the warmth of his body and the desperate hope that he would return the embrace.
Oliver did not pull away immediately. For a fraction of a second it seemed to her that he faltered his shoulders dropped slightly, his arms rose almost imperceptibly, as if he too wanted to hug her back. This fleeting movement ignited a spark of hope in her: perhaps everything could still be fixed, perhaps he too had kept these memories in his heart… Maybe they still had a future!
But the moment faded. Oliver firmly grasped her shoulders and gently but resolutely pushed her away from him. His face remained calm, almost impassive, and his gaze steady, almost cold. In those eyes there was no longer the boy with whom she had once laughed until tears and dreamed of the future. Before her stood an adult man whose feelings had long been hidden behind a solid wall.
“Get away from here,” he whispered in her ear.
He said it quietly and so emotionlessly, as if she meant absolutely nothing to him. As though she was a stranger, unworthy of his attention.
“I hate you,” he added a second later, and only now did unmistakable contempt flicker in his gaze.
He turned and walked away without looking back. Emma stood as if stunned. The world around continued its life: people hurried about their business, cars honked at the crossing, somewhere in the distance children laughed… One of the passers-by glanced at her sideways, perhaps wondering why the young woman stood in the middle of the street with a frozen look and pale face. But she noticed nothing.
Only the sound of his footsteps, gradually fading into the distance, and her own breathing ragged, intermittent, helpless. Each second stretched into eternity, and in her head the same thought turned: “This is the end. Forever.”
The young woman slowly made her way home. Her legs seemed not to obey, each step was difficult, but she walked, staring ahead with unseeing eyes. Her mind was empty no thoughts, no feelings, only the echoing resonance of his words, pounding inside.
When Emma entered her mum’s flat, she did not even try to explain anything. She simply walked silently into the room, sank onto a chair and stared out the window. Mum, seeing her tear-streaked face and extinguished gaze, did not ask questions. She only sighed softly, as if she had long awaited this moment, and went to put the kettle on. The familiar sound of boiling water, the smell of brewed tea all this seemed so ordinary, so contrasting to what was happening inside Emma. But it was precisely this simplicity and familiarity that somewhat brought her back to reality.
“He didn’t forgive me,” Emma whispered, clutching a cup of hot tea in her hands. The warm steam tickled her face slightly, but she hardly noticed it. Her fingers involuntarily gripped tighter, as if trying to hold onto something elusive, and her gaze remained fixed on the amber surface of the drink, in which the dull reflections of the table lamp were mirrored.
Mum sat down beside her, quietly, without unnecessary words, and patted her on the shoulder. The gesture was gentle, familiar the kind that used to happen in childhood when Emma came home with a scraped knee or after a quarrel with a friend. This simple act suddenly made her feel small, vulnerable, as if all the adult decisions and actions of recent years had melted away without a trace.
“You knew it would be like this,” Mum said softly, without reproach, more with quiet sadness.
“I knew,” Emma nodded, finally tearing her gaze from the cup. Her voice sounded even, but there was weariness in it, as if she had long been replaying this phrase in her head, preparing for it. “But I hoped. Foolish, isn’t it?”
“Not foolish,” Mum gently objected. “It’s just… you chose this path yourself. You hurt Oliver very much; he couldn’t get over your breakup for a long time… He had become like Kai from the children’s fairy tale. No one could touch his heart anymore.”
Emma sighed deeply, set the cup aside and leaned back in the chair. Pictures from seven years ago involuntarily surfaced before her eyes.
Back then everything had seemed so simple, so understandable. She was twenty-two an age when the future is painted in bright colours, and any obstacles seem surmountable. By her side was Oliver kind, reliable, the very person one could depend on in any situation. He did not shine with eloquence, did not know how to speak beautifully about feelings, but his actions spoke louder than words: he always came to help, knew how to listen, supported even in small things.
But there was one problem or rather, what Emma considered a problem at the time. Oliver worked on a construction site, studied by correspondence, dreamed of opening his own business. His plans were serious, well-thought-out, but required time and the young woman did not want to wait.
She did not dream of wealth, no. She wanted not luxury, but stability, confidence in the future. She wanted to know that in a year, two, five years she would have a job, housing, the opportunity to build life by her own rules. And next to Oliver everything looked too uncertain: endless part-time jobs, evening studies, dreams of the future that were still just dreams.
And when her uncle from London offered her a job in his company, she agreed. Without hesitation, almost without wavering. It was a chance real, tangible, that could not be missed.
There was another truth one that Emma tried not to recall. In that very period when she moved to London and started work, Richard appeared in her life. He was a wealthy businessman, twice her age, with confident manners and a habit of getting what he wanted. Their acquaintance turned out to be accidental at a corporate event, where Emma arrived in a new dress, feeling somewhat out of place among the solid colleagues. Richard immediately noticed her: he sat down next to her, started a conversation, asked about work, plans, life.
He did not skimp on signs of attention. First it was flowers not bunches of roses, but neat bouquets delivered to the office with a note: “To the most beautiful.” Then invitations to restaurants where Emma had previously only been able to peer in from the street, admiring the interior. He took her to exhibitions, to theatres, gave her things she had not dared to dream of before: silk scarves, elegant jewellery, high-heeled shoes. Each gift was accompanied by words about how she deserved a better life, how she should not limit herself, how important it was to accept what fate offered.
Emma initially resisted she was embarrassed, refused, tried to explain that she did not need such gifts. But Richard gently insisted, convincing her that it was just a sign of attention, that he was genuinely admiring her intelligence and beauty. Gradually she began to accept his courtship. The glittering new reality was captivating: evenings in cosy restaurants, rides in business-class taxis, the ability to enter any shop and buy what she liked without checking the price. All this seemed like a magical dream from which she did not want to wake.
And somewhere between these sparkling moments she began seeing Richard. Not because she burned with passion for him, but because his world beckoned with its ease and confidence. With him there was no need to worry about tomorrow, to wonder if there would be enough money for rent or a new suit for an important meeting. He simply took everything upon himself, creating an atmosphere of carefreeness around her.
And she liked this life very much. So much so that Emma completely forgot about the unfortunate young man in love with her. Even more now she began to despise him, declaring that Oliver would never achieve anything in life.
One day Emma returned to Bristol. Not to see Oliver, not to explain or even just to say hello. She wanted something else to show him her new life, to demonstrate what she was truly “worthy” of. Somewhere deep inside a thought smouldered: let him see that she had not made a mistake, that her choice was correct, that she had managed to break out of the uncertainty that surrounded their relationship.
She carefully planned her visit. She chose a cafe on the main street the very one Oliver sometimes stopped by for coffee after work. She put on an expensive dress that Richard had given her for her birthday elegant, with a thin belt emphasising her waist. On her hand sparkled a ring with a large stone another of his gifts. In her hands she held a bag from the latest collection, which she had bought the day before, barely seeing it in the window.
When Oliver entered the cafe, Emma noticed him immediately. She sat by the window, laughed loudly on purpose at something her companion said, and turned so that Oliver would definitely see her. Their eyes met. In his eyes she read confusion, pain, bewilderment all that she had tried not to notice in herself all these months. But instead of feeling embarrassed or looking away, she held his gaze without flinching.
At that moment it seemed to her that it was a victory. She had proved to herself and to him that she had made the right choice. That her life now was not endless talks about the future, but real opportunities, luxury and confidence. She convinced herself that she felt satisfaction, that she had finally got what she deserved.
But when Oliver left the cafe, and she remained sitting at the table, her laughter gradually died down. She looked at the ring, at the bag, at her companion who continued talking about something, and suddenly felt a strange emptiness. All this expensive things, beautiful gestures, attention suddenly seemed distant and unreal. And although she continued to smile and keep the conversation going, inside something quietly whispered: “Was it worth it?”
The victory proved bitter this Emma realised not immediately, but gradually, day by day, the awareness became clearer. At first Richard still maintained his previous image of a generous, attentive man: he invited her to restaurants, gave flowers, paid compliments. But over time his interest began to fade, like a candle that had run out of wax.
First it showed in small things. Instead of warm words restrained remarks. Instead of unexpected gifts short messages: “Stop by that shop, pick something for yourself.” And then there were sharp jabs. He suddenly started picking at her appearance: “Maybe you should take a bit more care of yourself?”, her manner of speaking: “Why do you laugh so loudly? It’s vulgar”, her friends whom she occasionally met: “Those provincial acquaintances again? Don’t you think it’s time to find a more interesting circle of friends?”
His presence in her life became increasingly rare. He would disappear for several days, sometimes weeks, leaving her alone in the spacious flat he had rented. Emma spent evenings in solitude, listening to the ticking of the clock or aimlessly sorting through things in the wardrobe. When she tried to talk to him, to explain that she missed their communication, he would just brush it off, not looking her in the eyes:
“You got what you wanted. What more do you need?”
Emma tried to find excuses for his behaviour. “He has a complicated business,” she thought, “probably a lot of stress.” Or: “He’s just tired, he needs time.” She convinced herself that these were temporary difficulties, that everything would soon improve, that she was simply too demanding. But deep inside she understood: it was not about tiredness or work. She had become just another pretty toy for him bright, new, attracting attention. And when the novelty wore off, the interest faded.
She endured. She endured his sharp words, his cold silence, his long absences. She endured because she was afraid to admit to herself one single but very important thing: she had been mistaken. If she admitted that the brilliant life had turned out to be hollow, she would have to admit something else that she had betrayed the only person who had truly loved her. That Oliver, with his modest work and dreams of his own business, had been the one who valued her simply for who she was, and not for her external gloss and conformity to someone’s ideas of an ideal companion.
Over time even the external attributes of luxury ceased to bring joy. Expensive dresses, which she had once enthusiastically examined in shops, now hung lifelessly in the wardrobe. Jewellery, which had once caused excitement, lay in a box as if foreign. Restaurants, which she had loved so much at the beginning with their subdued lighting, exquisite dishes and festive atmosphere began to irritate her just by their appearance. The scent of expensive perfume, which had previously seemed to her a symbol of a new life, now caused slight nausea.
She increasingly caught herself looking out the window, watching passers-by, and thinking: “What if…” But she immediately cut off these thoughts, afraid to give them free rein. Because behind them followed a question to which she had no answer: “What next?”
In those lonely evenings, when dusk slowly thickened outside the window, and an almost ringing silence reigned in the flat, Emma increasingly thought about how her dreams of stability had turned out to be somehow empty. She imagined a life in which there was confidence in the future, where one did not need to worry about money, where everything was planned and ordered. But now, sitting in the spacious, well-furnished flat, she suddenly clearly understood: without a person with whom one wants to share this stability, all this had no meaning.
Thoughts involuntarily returned to Oliver. She remembered his hands strong, a bit rough from work, but so warm when he took her palms in his. She remembered his smile not bright, showy, but quiet, sincere, which appeared when he was truly happy. She remembered how he spoke about the future: without pathos and loud promises, he simply shared plans, believed that everything would work out for them. And this faith was so real, so tangible, that Emma then felt with him she could fear nothing…
On the third day of her stay at home Emma decided to walk through the park where they had once strolled together. There was that very bench under the spreading maple they often sat here, chatted about everything under the sun, laughed at trifles. Emma remembered how Oliver, looking at the falling leaves, suddenly said: “You know, I want us to have our own house. With large windows, so that in the morning the sun shines right into the room. And so that there is always a lot of light and happiness there.” Back then she had only smiled, thinking it was just dreams. But now these words sounded different like something missed, lost.
She stopped, inhaled the cool air, trying to collect her thoughts. And at that moment she heard a familiar voice:
“Emma?”
She turned around. Before her stood Thomas their mutual friend with Oliver. He looked surprised, but then smiled, as if glad to meet her.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, slightly raising his eyebrows. “How are you?”
Emma hesitated for a second, choosing words. She wanted to answer lightly, casually, but her voice trembled a little, though she tried to hide it.
“Fine,” she tried to smile, and the smile came out not as strained as she had feared. “I’ve come to visit Mum.”
Thomas nodded, giving her an attentive look, but did not ask further. Instead he pointed to a bench nearby:
“Shall we sit? I was just walking, thinking where to go next.”
Emma agreed, and they slowly headed towards the bench. Along the way Thomas talked about how things were going with him, what was new in Bristol lately. His voice sounded calm, friendly, and this relaxed Emma a bit. She listened, sometimes inserting short remarks, while thinking about how strangely everything was turning out: she had returned to her hometown, where every corner reminded her of the past, and here she was already meeting a person who had been part of that life.
Thomas nodded, was silent for a bit, as if choosing words, and then calmly, without pressure asked:
“Have you seen Oliver?”
Emma involuntarily lowered her eyes, her gaze sliding over the fallen leaves under her feet. She did not answer immediately memories of yesterday’s meeting flashed through her head, of his cold look, of those short, wounding words. Finally she quietly said:
“Yes. Yesterday.”
“And how?” Thomas asked, looking at her attentively.
“He… he doesn’t want to know me,” Emma exhaled, struggling to pronounce each word. Her voice sounded even, but there was dejection in it, as if she was trying to hold back a storm of emotions inside. “He hates me.”
Thomas sighed, sat down on the bench next to her, rested his elbows on his knees and looked into the distance, to where the park avenue receded into the golden autumn haze. For several seconds he was silent, as if weighing what to say, and then spoke softly:
“You know, he couldn’t come to his senses for a long time. You just disappeared, Emma. No call, no letter. For him it was like a stab in the back.”
Emma clenched her fingers, feeling everything inside tighten. She knew this, understood it, but hearing confirmation from another person turned out to be harder than she had expected.
“I know,” she whispered, not raising her gaze. “I’m to blame.”
Thomas slightly turned his head towards her, but did not press, did not begin to lecture. Instead he continued, just as calmly:
“He tried to forget you. He dated someone, but nothing came of it. He says he can’t love anyone the way he loved you. He was in a very bad way, you understand? And after your demonstrative appearance… I thought he would withdraw completely!”
Emma nodded silently. She imagined how Oliver had tried to live on, how he had forced himself not to think about her, how, probably, he had flinched at the sound of a similar voice or at a random memory each time. And this thought made it even more painful not because he had suffered, but because she had been the cause of that pain.
“I didn’t know it would be like this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Thomas. “I thought I was making the right choice. I wanted stability.”
Thomas did not argue, did not try to convince her otherwise. He simply sat beside her, giving her time to digest what she had heard. In the park the wind rustled, leaves whirled in a slow dance, and somewhere in the distance children laughed, playing by the fountain. Life went on in its own way.
Emma clenched her fists so that her nails slightly dug into the skin of her palms. She tried to hold back the tears, but they still welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. Inside everything tightened with bitter realisation: she could not fix anything, could not turn back time, could not erase what she had done.
“I’m not asking him to forgive me,” she said in a trembling voice, struggling to find the words. “I just wanted him to know I regret it! I regret every day what I did. These thoughts give me no peace! I constantly remember how everything was… and how I destroyed it all.”
Thomas looked at her attentively, without condemnation. He did not hurry with an answer it was clear he was weighing every word.
“Perhaps he doesn’t need to know that,” he finally said quietly but firmly. “Leave him in peace, don’t come back, you’re only making it worse. He took a long time to recover after you left. And, probably, he has learned to cope somehow. But your appearance… it stirred everything up again! Yesterday he called me and… he was terribly drunk. I haven’t seen him like that in a long time, you understand? Don’t ruin his life, Emma.”
The young woman bit her lip hard, but remained silent. She understood that Thomas was right! Her sudden return, the attempt to meet Oliver all this had only reopened old wounds that he had been trying to heal all these years. She had wanted to atone for her guilt, but perhaps this had only caused him new pain…
In the evening Emma sat by the window in Mum’s flat. Outside the glass the lights of the city slowly came on yellow, orange, white they merged into a whimsical mosaic, shimmered and gleamed, creating an illusion of celebration. But she had no time for the beauty of the evening streets. Thoughts swirled in her head one after another, like frames from an old film that she could not stop.
She imagined how everything could have been if she had stayed then. How they would have rented their first flat together, how Oliver would have built his business, how they would have planned the future, laughed at small troubles, rejoiced in small victories. She thought about how many happy moments she had missed, how many warm words she had not said, how many touches she had not shared. But the past could not be changed this she understood clearly, as never before.
The next day Emma left. She packed her things unhurriedly, without fuss, as if she wanted to delay the moment of farewell. Mum stood in the doorway of the room, silently watching her, and in her eyes there was quiet sadness not reproach, but simply grief that her daughter was leaving again.
“Take care of yourself,” Mum said when Emma was already standing in the hallway, holding her suitcase in her hands.
Emma nodded, kissed her on the cheek, lingered for a second, inhaling the familiar smell of home, and then stepped out into the street.
At the station she bought a ticket to London she wanted to think. A couple of days on the train, in the company of strangers… Perhaps this would help her understand how to live further.
The train moved off smoothly, swaying slightly on the rails. Emma did not take her eyes off the window. Beyond the glass the familiar outlines of Bristol slowly drifted by: five-storey blocks with balconies filled with flowers, the children’s playground where she had once walked with friends, the small bakery with a bright sign. People hurried about their affairs someone with a bag of groceries, someone with an open umbrella despite the clear weather, someone rushing to the bus stop. All this was so ordinary, so familiar, but now it seemed infinitely distant.
Somewhere there, among these streets and houses, remained the person she had loved more than anything in the world. A person whose eyes lit up when he spoke of the future, whose hands could do hard work and gently hold her palm. A person to whom she had not found time to explain her departure, had not given a chance to say goodbye. And now he was lost to her forever this she understood clearly, no matter how she tried to convince herself that it was not all over…
Half a year passed. Emma continued to live in London, went to work, met friends for coffee at weekends, answered questions about her well-being and plans. Outwardly everything looked the same as before: the same schedule, the same places, the same conversations. But inside her something had irreversibly changed. She no longer ran from the past, did not try to hide it behind new acquaintances, expensive purchases or a busy schedule. Now she looked at it directly, without fear: she accepted her mistake, acknowledged the pain she had caused, and her sincere remorse.
She had learned to wake up with the thought that life goes on. She had learned to say to herself: “I did what I did. It was wrong, but nothing can be changed now.” And in this acceptance there was a strange, quiet relief not joy, no, but at least the possibility to breathe more evenly, to look forward without panic.
One evening, when Emma was preparing dinner, the phone quietly beeped, notifying of a new message. She wiped her hands on a towel, picked up the smartphone and saw an unfamiliar number. Just one sentence on the screen: “I don’t hate you. But I can’t forgive you either.”
Emma froze. Her fingers automatically clenched the phone, and her heart for a second seemed to stop, then beat faster. She slowly sank to the floor, pressing the smartphone to her chest, as if trying to feel through it the beating of another heart the one belonging to the person who had written these words.
She did not know what it meant. She did not understand how to interpret these lines whether as a step towards her or as a final “goodbye”. But for the first time in a long while it seemed to her that between them there remained at least some thread. Thin, fragile, ready to break at the slightest careless movement, but still a connection. Someone there, in another city, was thinking about her. Someone had decided to write, despite the pain and resentment. Someone had not closed the door completely.
Emma smiled through her tears. The smile came out timid, uncertain, but genuine. Perhaps this was not the end. Perhaps someday they could talk calmly, without accusations, without attempts to justify themselves or the other. Perhaps they would find words that would help them both move forward together or separately, but already with a clear understanding.
For now… for now it was enough for her to know that he was still thinking about her. That somewhere there, hundreds of miles away, lived a person who remembered her not only as a mistake from the past, but also as part of his story.
And that for now was enough.But nothing had really changed, as she would come to realise years later when looking back on those events.
Emma fidgeted nervously with the edge of her sleeve, gazing out of the taxi window. Beyond the glass, the streets she had known since childhood passed by the same ones she had once run along with Oliver, laughing and dreaming about the future. Seven years… A full seven years had passed since she had last been in Bristol.
“We’ve arrived,” the driver’s voice sounded, softly breaking into her reflections.
The taxi came to a gentle stop outside the entrance of an old five-storey block of flats. Emma mechanically checked that her phone was in place, pulled out some money, settled the fare and got out of the car. The door slammed shut, and for a moment she paused where she stood, inhaling the air of Bristol. It was indeed different unlike the large metropolis where she now resided. Here, every smell, every shade of sound seemed to stir something profound within her. There was the scent of freshly mown grass from the nearby park, a touch of freshly baked bread from the little bakery on the corner, and something else elusive that could only be described as home. This mix caused her heart to tighten painfully and yet sweetly, as though she was at once joyful and fearful of what awaited her.
She had come for only a few days. Officially, to visit her mum and assist with documents that had required attention for some time. She also wished to stroll through familiar spots, as if verifying whether they had stayed just as she remembered. Yet deep in her soul lurked another motive perhaps the primary one. She yearned desperately to see Oliver! And who could say, perhaps her life would take a turn?
Emma knew he lived close by. Not that she had intentionally followed his life no, she had never inquired about him outright. But friends, upon seeing her or connecting through social networks, would occasionally let his name slip. In this way, she caught fragments of information: he had switched jobs and now occupied an excellent position, he had purchased a flat, he had brought his mum to live with him… Each time she heard news of him, she briefly pictured how he might appear now, what occupied him, what occupied his thoughts. But she quickly dismissed these ideas, fearing to allow them too much room in her heart…
On the following day, Emma decided to take a walk through the city centre. She had no particular plans she simply wanted to breathe the urban air, observe the familiar places in daylight, feel the rhythm of the streets that had once been part of her life. She walked unhurriedly, peering into shop windows, smiling fleetingly as she recognised something long forgotten: there was the news kiosk where she used to buy comics, the bench where she and her friends sat after school, the cafe where she had first tried a cappuccino and nearly spilled it on her new blouse.
And suddenly she saw him.
Oliver was walking on the opposite side of the street. He did not notice her he looked ahead, his head slightly tilted as if pondering something. Emma froze. Everything inside her flipped so abruptly that for a moment she even forgot how to breathe. He had not changed at all still the same height, with that same light, slightly relaxed gait she remembered from her youth. The same silhouette, the same movements, even the same hairstyle.
Without thinking, she dashed across the road. The traffic light flashed amber, a sharp horn sounded from somewhere, but she barely heard it. Her legs carried her forward on their own, her heart pounding so loudly it seemed audible across the entire street.
“Oliver!” she called out when she caught up with him by the shop.
Her voice trembled she had not realised how nervous she was. He turned around and… nothing. No joy in his gaze, no anger. Nothing at all.
“Emma?” he said calmly, almost indifferently.
This tone so even, devoid of emotion struck harder than she had expected. Everything that had built up inside over seven years suddenly burst out. Her eyes filled with tears, her voice shook, and she could no longer stop.
“Oliver, I… I’m so sorry,” the young woman managed to say, struggling to find the words. “I know I have no right to even approach you, but I…” she sobbed, tried to pull herself together, but tears rolled down her cheeks, and she did not even try to wipe them away. “I love you. I still love you. Forgive me. Please, forgive me!”
She spoke quickly, disjointedly, as if afraid that if she stopped, she would not be able to continue. So many things swirled in her head justifications, explanations, pleas but now only the most important words escaped. Those she had kept inside for so many years.
She embraced him, pressing herself tightly against his chest, as if this motion could restore what had been lost seven years ago. In that moment, the noisy street, the passers-by, time itself ceased to exist for her only the warmth of his body and the desperate hope that he would return the embrace.
Oliver did not pull away immediately. For a fraction of a second it seemed to her that he faltered his shoulders dropped slightly, his arms rose almost imperceptibly, as if he too wanted to hug her back. This fleeting movement ignited a spark of hope in her: perhaps everything could still be fixed, perhaps he too had kept these memories in his heart… Maybe they still had a future!
But the moment faded. Oliver firmly grasped her shoulders and gently but resolutely pushed her away from him. His face remained calm, almost impassive, and his gaze steady, almost cold. In those eyes there was no longer the boy with whom she had once laughed until tears and dreamed of the future. Before her stood an adult man whose feelings had long been hidden behind a solid wall.
“Get away from here,” he whispered in her ear.
He said it quietly and so emotionlessly, as if she meant absolutely nothing to him. As though she was a stranger, unworthy of his attention.
“I hate you,” he added a second later, and only now did unmistakable contempt flicker in his gaze.
He turned and walked away without looking back. Emma stood as if stunned. The world around continued its life: people hurried about their business, cars honked at the crossing, somewhere in the distance children laughed… One of the passers-by glanced at her sideways, perhaps wondering why the young woman stood in the middle of the street with a frozen look and pale face. But she noticed nothing.
Only the sound of his footsteps, gradually fading into the distance, and her own breathing ragged, intermittent, helpless. Each second stretched into eternity, and in her head the same thought turned: “This is the end. Forever.”
The young woman slowly made her way home. Her legs seemed not to obey, each step was difficult, but she walked, staring ahead with unseeing eyes. Her mind was empty no thoughts, no feelings, only the echoing resonance of his words, pounding inside.
When Emma entered her mum’s flat, she did not even try to explain anything. She simply walked silently into the room, sank onto a chair and stared out the window. Mum, seeing her tear-streaked face and extinguished gaze, did not ask questions. She only sighed softly, as if she had long awaited this moment, and went to put the kettle on. The familiar sound of boiling water, the smell of brewed tea all this seemed so ordinary, so contrasting to what was happening inside Emma. But it was precisely this simplicity and familiarity that somewhat brought her back to reality.
“He didn’t forgive me,” Emma whispered, clutching a cup of hot tea in her hands. The warm steam tickled her face slightly, but she hardly noticed it. Her fingers involuntarily gripped tighter, as if trying to hold onto something elusive, and her gaze remained fixed on the amber surface of the drink, in which the dull reflections of the table lamp were mirrored.
Mum sat down beside her, quietly, without unnecessary words, and patted her on the shoulder. The gesture was gentle, familiar the kind that used to happen in childhood when Emma came home with a scraped knee or after a quarrel with a friend. This simple act suddenly made her feel small, vulnerable, as if all the adult decisions and actions of recent years had melted away without a trace.
“You knew it would be like this,” Mum said softly, without reproach, more with quiet sadness.
“I knew,” Emma nodded, finally tearing her gaze from the cup. Her voice sounded even, but there was weariness in it, as if she had long been replaying this phrase in her head, preparing for it. “But I hoped. Foolish, isn’t it?”
“Not foolish,” Mum gently objected. “It’s just… you chose this path yourself. You hurt Oliver very much; he couldn’t get over your breakup for a long time… He had become like Kai from the children’s fairy tale. No one could touch his heart anymore.”
Emma sighed deeply, set the cup aside and leaned back in the chair. Pictures from seven years ago involuntarily surfaced before her eyes.
Back then everything had seemed so simple, so understandable. She was twenty-two an age when the future is painted in bright colours, and any obstacles seem surmountable. By her side was Oliver kind, reliable, the very person one could depend on in any situation. He did not shine with eloquence, did not know how to speak beautifully about feelings, but his actions spoke louder than words: he always came to help, knew how to listen, supported even in small things.
But there was one problem or rather, what Emma considered a problem at the time. Oliver worked on a construction site, studied by correspondence, dreamed of opening his own business. His plans were serious, well-thought-out, but required time and the young woman did not want to wait.
She did not dream of wealth, no. She wanted not luxury, but stability, confidence in the future. She wanted to know that in a year, two, five years she would have a job, housing, the opportunity to build life by her own rules. And next to Oliver everything looked too uncertain: endless part-time jobs, evening studies, dreams of the future that were still just dreams.
And when her uncle from London offered her a job in his company, she agreed. Without hesitation, almost without wavering. It was a chance real, tangible, that could not be missed.
There was another truth one that Emma tried not to recall. In that very period when she moved to London and started work, Richard appeared in her life. He was a wealthy businessman, twice her age, with confident manners and a habit of getting what he wanted. Their acquaintance turned out to be accidental at a corporate event, where Emma arrived in a new dress, feeling somewhat out of place among the solid colleagues. Richard immediately noticed her: he sat down next to her, started a conversation, asked about work, plans, life.
He did not skimp on signs of attention. First it was flowers not bunches of roses, but neat bouquets delivered to the office with a note: “To the most beautiful.” Then invitations to restaurants where Emma had previously only been able to peer in from the street, admiring the interior. He took her to exhibitions, to theatres, gave her things she had not dared to dream of before: silk scarves, elegant jewellery, high-heeled shoes. Each gift was accompanied by words about how she deserved a better life, how she should not limit herself, how important it was to accept what fate offered.
Emma initially resisted she was embarrassed, refused, tried to explain that she did not need such gifts. But Richard gently insisted, convincing her that it was just a sign of attention, that he was genuinely admiring her intelligence and beauty. Gradually she began to accept his courtship. The glittering new reality was captivating: evenings in cosy restaurants, rides in business-class taxis, the ability to enter any shop and buy what she liked without checking the price. All this seemed like a magical dream from which she did not want to wake.
And somewhere between these sparkling moments she began seeing Richard. Not because she burned with passion for him, but because his world beckoned with its ease and confidence. With him there was no need to worry about tomorrow, to wonder if there would be enough money for rent or a new suit for an important meeting. He simply took everything upon himself, creating an atmosphere of carefreeness around her.
And she liked this life very much. So much so that Emma completely forgot about the unfortunate young man in love with her. Even more now she began to despise him, declaring that Oliver would never achieve anything in life.
One day Emma returned to Bristol. Not to see Oliver, not to explain or even just to say hello. She wanted something else to show him her new life, to demonstrate what she was truly “worthy” of. Somewhere deep inside a thought smouldered: let him see that she had not made a mistake, that her choice was correct, that she had managed to break out of the uncertainty that surrounded their relationship.
She carefully planned her visit. She chose a cafe on the main street the very one Oliver sometimes stopped by for coffee after work. She put on an expensive dress that Richard had given her for her birthday elegant, with a thin belt emphasising her waist. On her hand sparkled a ring with a large stone another of his gifts. In her hands she held a bag from the latest collection, which she had bought the day before, barely seeing it in the window.
When Oliver entered the cafe, Emma noticed him immediately. She sat by the window, laughed loudly on purpose at something her companion said, and turned so that Oliver would definitely see her. Their eyes met. In his eyes she read confusion, pain, bewilderment all that she had tried not to notice in herself all these months. But instead of feeling embarrassed or looking away, she held his gaze without flinching.
At that moment it seemed to her that it was a victory. She had proved to herself and to him that she had made the right choice. That her life now was not endless talks about the future, but real opportunities, luxury and confidence. She convinced herself that she felt satisfaction, that she had finally got what she deserved.
But when Oliver left the cafe, and she remained sitting at the table, her laughter gradually died down. She looked at the ring, at the bag, at her companion who continued talking about something, and suddenly felt a strange emptiness. All this expensive things, beautiful gestures, attention suddenly seemed distant and unreal. And although she continued to smile and keep the conversation going, inside something quietly whispered: “Was it worth it?”
The victory proved bitter this Emma realised not immediately, but gradually, day by day, the awareness became clearer. At first Richard still maintained his previous image of a generous, attentive man: he invited her to restaurants, gave flowers, paid compliments. But over time his interest began to fade, like a candle that had run out of wax.
First it showed in small things. Instead of warm words restrained remarks. Instead of unexpected gifts short messages: “Stop by that shop, pick something for yourself.” And then there were sharp jabs. He suddenly started picking at her appearance: “Maybe you should take a bit more care of yourself?”, her manner of speaking: “Why do you laugh so loudly? It’s vulgar”, her friends whom she occasionally met: “Those provincial acquaintances again? Don’t you think it’s time to find a more interesting circle of friends?”
His presence in her life became increasingly rare. He would disappear for several days, sometimes weeks, leaving her alone in the spacious flat he had rented. Emma spent evenings in solitude, listening to the ticking of the clock or aimlessly sorting through things in the wardrobe. When she tried to talk to him, to explain that she missed their communication, he would just brush it off, not looking her in the eyes:
“You got what you wanted. What more do you need?”
Emma tried to find excuses for his behaviour. “He has a complicated business,” she thought, “probably a lot of stress.” Or: “He’s just tired, he needs time.” She convinced herself that these were temporary difficulties, that everything would soon improve, that she was simply too demanding. But deep inside she understood: it was not about tiredness or work. She had become just another pretty toy for him bright, new, attracting attention. And when the novelty wore off, the interest faded.
She endured. She endured his sharp words, his cold silence, his long absences. She endured because she was afraid to admit to herself one single but very important thing: she had been mistaken. If she admitted that the brilliant life had turned out to be hollow, she would have to admit something else that she had betrayed the only person who had truly loved her. That Oliver, with his modest work and dreams of his own business, had been the one who valued her simply for who she was, and not for her external gloss and conformity to someone’s ideas of an ideal companion.
Over time even the external attributes of luxury ceased to bring joy. Expensive dresses, which she had once enthusiastically examined in shops, now hung lifelessly in the wardrobe. Jewellery, which had once caused excitement, lay in a box as if foreign. Restaurants, which she had loved so much at the beginning with their subdued lighting, exquisite dishes and festive atmosphere began to irritate her just by their appearance. The scent of expensive perfume, which had previously seemed to her a symbol of a new life, now caused slight nausea.
She increasingly caught herself looking out the window, watching passers-by, and thinking: “What if…” But she immediately cut off these thoughts, afraid to give them free rein. Because behind them followed a question to which she had no answer: “What next?”
In those lonely evenings, when dusk slowly thickened outside the window, and an almost ringing silence reigned in the flat, Emma increasingly thought about how her dreams of stability had turned out to be somehow empty. She imagined a life in which there was confidence in the future, where one did not need to worry about money, where everything was planned and ordered. But now, sitting in the spacious, well-furnished flat, she suddenly clearly understood: without a person with whom one wants to share this stability, all this had no meaning.
Thoughts involuntarily returned to Oliver. She remembered his hands strong, a bit rough from work, but so warm when he took her palms in his. She remembered his smile not bright, showy, but quiet, sincere, which appeared when he was truly happy. She remembered how he spoke about the future: without pathos and loud promises, he simply shared plans, believed that everything would work out for them. And this faith was so real, so tangible, that Emma then felt with him she could fear nothing…
On the third day of her stay at home Emma decided to walk through the park where they had once strolled together. There was that very bench under the spreading maple they often sat here, chatted about everything under the sun, laughed at trifles. Emma remembered how Oliver, looking at the falling leaves, suddenly said: “You know, I want us to have our own house. With large windows, so that in the morning the sun shines right into the room. And so that there is always a lot of light and happiness there.” Back then she had only smiled, thinking it was just dreams. But now these words sounded different like something missed, lost.
She stopped, inhaled the cool air, trying to collect her thoughts. And at that moment she heard a familiar voice:
“Emma?”
She turned around. Before her stood Thomas their mutual friend with Oliver. He looked surprised, but then smiled, as if glad to meet her.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, slightly raising his eyebrows. “How are you?”
Emma hesitated for a second, choosing words. She wanted to answer lightly, casually, but her voice trembled a little, though she tried to hide it.
“Fine,” she tried to smile, and the smile came out not as strained as she had feared. “I’ve come to visit Mum.”
Thomas nodded, giving her an attentive look, but did not ask further. Instead he pointed to a bench nearby:
“Shall we sit? I was just walking, thinking where to go next.”
Emma agreed, and they slowly headed towards the bench. Along the way Thomas talked about how things were going with him, what was new in Bristol lately. His voice sounded calm, friendly, and this relaxed Emma a bit. She listened, sometimes inserting short remarks, while thinking about how strangely everything was turning out: she had returned to her hometown, where every corner reminded her of the past, and here she was already meeting a person who had been part of that life.
Thomas nodded, was silent for a bit, as if choosing words, and then calmly, without pressure asked:
“Have you seen Oliver?”
Emma involuntarily lowered her eyes, her gaze sliding over the fallen leaves under her feet. She did not answer immediately memories of yesterday’s meeting flashed through her head, of his cold look, of those short, wounding words. Finally she quietly said:
“Yes. Yesterday.”
“And how?” Thomas asked, looking at her attentively.
“He… he doesn’t want to know me,” Emma exhaled, struggling to pronounce each word. Her voice sounded even, but there was dejection in it, as if she was trying to hold back a storm of emotions inside. “He hates me.”
Thomas sighed, sat down on the bench next to her, rested his elbows on his knees and looked into the distance, to where the park avenue receded into the golden autumn haze. For several seconds he was silent, as if weighing what to say, and then spoke softly:
“You know, he couldn’t come to his senses for a long time. You just disappeared, Emma. No call, no letter. For him it was like a stab in the back.”
Emma clenched her fingers, feeling everything inside tighten. She knew this, understood it, but hearing confirmation from another person turned out to be harder than she had expected.
“I know,” she whispered, not raising her gaze. “I’m to blame.”
Thomas slightly turned his head towards her, but did not press, did not begin to lecture. Instead he continued, just as calmly:
“He tried to forget you. He dated someone, but nothing came of it. He says he can’t love anyone the way he loved you. He was in a very bad way, you understand? And after your demonstrative appearance… I thought he would withdraw completely!”
Emma nodded silently. She imagined how Oliver had tried to live on, how he had forced himself not to think about her, how, probably, he had flinched at the sound of a similar voice or at a random memory each time. And this thought made it even more painful not because he had suffered, but because she had been the cause of that pain.
“I didn’t know it would be like this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Thomas. “I thought I was making the right choice. I wanted stability.”
Thomas did not argue, did not try to convince her otherwise. He simply sat beside her, giving her time to digest what she had heard. In the park the wind rustled, leaves whirled in a slow dance, and somewhere in the distance children laughed, playing by the fountain. Life went on in its own way.
Emma clenched her fists so that her nails slightly dug into the skin of her palms. She tried to hold back the tears, but they still welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. Inside everything tightened with bitter realisation: she could not fix anything, could not turn back time, could not erase what she had done.
“I’m not asking him to forgive me,” she said in a trembling voice, struggling to find the words. “I just wanted him to know I regret it! I regret every day what I did. These thoughts give me no peace! I constantly remember how everything was… and how I destroyed it all.”
Thomas looked at her attentively, without condemnation. He did not hurry with an answer it was clear he was weighing every word.
“Perhaps he doesn’t need to know that,” he finally said quietly but firmly. “Leave him in peace, don’t come back, you’re only making it worse. He took a long time to recover after you left. And, probably, he has learned to cope somehow. But your appearance… it stirred everything up again! Yesterday he called me and… he was terribly drunk. I haven’t seen him like that in a long time, you understand? Don’t ruin his life, Emma.”
The young woman bit her lip hard, but remained silent. She understood that Thomas was right! Her sudden return, the attempt to meet Oliver all this had only reopened old wounds that he had been trying to heal all these years. She had wanted to atone for her guilt, but perhaps this had only caused him new pain…
In the evening Emma sat by the window in Mum’s flat. Outside the glass the lights of the city slowly came on yellow, orange, white they merged into a whimsical mosaic, shimmered and gleamed, creating an illusion of celebration. But she had no time for the beauty of the evening streets. Thoughts swirled in her head one after another, like frames from an old film that she could not stop.
She imagined how everything could have been if she had stayed then. How they would have rented their first flat together, how Oliver would have built his business, how they would have planned the future, laughed at small troubles, rejoiced in small victories. She thought about how many happy moments she had missed, how many warm words she had not said, how many touches she had not shared. But the past could not be changed this she understood clearly, as never before.
The next day Emma left. She packed her things unhurriedly, without fuss, as if she wanted to delay the moment of farewell. Mum stood in the doorway of the room, silently watching her, and in her eyes there was quiet sadness not reproach, but simply grief that her daughter was leaving again.
“Take care of yourself,” Mum said when Emma was already standing in the hallway, holding her suitcase in her hands.
Emma nodded, kissed her on the cheek, lingered for a second, inhaling the familiar smell of home, and then stepped out into the street.
At the station she bought a ticket to London she wanted to think. A couple of days on the train, in the company of strangers… Perhaps this would help her understand how to live further.
The train moved off smoothly, swaying slightly on the rails. Emma did not take her eyes off the window. Beyond the glass the familiar outlines of Bristol slowly drifted by: five-storey blocks with balconies filled with flowers, the children’s playground where she had once walked with friends, the small bakery with a bright sign. People hurried about their affairs someone with a bag of groceries, someone with an open umbrella despite the clear weather, someone rushing to the bus stop. All this was so ordinary, so familiar, but now it seemed infinitely distant.
Somewhere there, among these streets and houses, remained the person she had loved more than anything in the world. A person whose eyes lit up when he spoke of the future, whose hands could do hard work and gently hold her palm. A person to whom she had not found time to explain her departure, had not given a chance to say goodbye. And now he was lost to her forever this she understood clearly, no matter how she tried to convince herself that it was not all over…
Half a year passed. Emma continued to live in London, went to work, met friends for coffee at weekends, answered questions about her well-being and plans. Outwardly everything looked the same as before: the same schedule, the same places, the same conversations. But inside her something had irreversibly changed. She no longer ran from the past, did not try to hide it behind new acquaintances, expensive purchases or a busy schedule. Now she looked at it directly, without fear: she accepted her mistake, acknowledged the pain she had caused, and her sincere remorse.
She had learned to wake up with the thought that life goes on. She had learned to say to herself: “I did what I did. It was wrong, but nothing can be changed now.” And in this acceptance there was a strange, quiet relief not joy, no, but at least the possibility to breathe more evenly, to look forward without panic.
One evening, when Emma was preparing dinner, the phone quietly beeped, notifying of a new message. She wiped her hands on a towel, picked up the smartphone and saw an unfamiliar number. Just one sentence on the screen: “I don’t hate you. But I can’t forgive you either.”
Emma froze. Her fingers automatically clenched the phone, and her heart for a second seemed to stop, then beat faster. She slowly sank to the floor, pressing the smartphone to her chest, as if trying to feel through it the beating of another heart the one belonging to the person who had written these words.
She did not know what it meant. She did not understand how to interpret these lines whether as a step towards her or as a final “goodbye”. But for the first time in a long while it seemed to her that between them there remained at least some thread. Thin, fragile, ready to break at the slightest careless movement, but still a connection. Someone there, in another city, was thinking about her. Someone had decided to write, despite the pain and resentment. Someone had not closed the door completely.
Emma smiled through her tears. The smile came out timid, uncertain, but genuine. Perhaps this was not the end. Perhaps someday they could talk calmly, without accusations, without attempts to justify themselves or the other. Perhaps they would find words that would help them both move forward together or separately, but already with a clear understanding.
For now… for now it was enough for her to know that he was still thinking about her. That somewhere there, hundreds of miles away, lived a person who remembered her not only as a mistake from the past, but also as part of his story.
And that for now was enough.
