I Don’t Hate You at All

I dont hate you

Everything is just the same, isn’t it…

Clara fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, watching the streets of Oxford pass by through the taxi window. Beyond the glass, familiar roads drifted pastthose same sleepy avenues where she once ran with Oliver, laughing and weaving grand plans for the future. Seven years. For seven whole years, she hadnt come home.

Were here, the drivers calm voice broke her spiral of thought.

The taxi drew to a stop outside the old red-brick block of flats. Clara instinctively checked her phone, counted out forty pounds from her purse, paid the driver, and stepped onto the pavement. The door shut behind her, and she froze for a moment, breathing in the Oxford air. It was different here, so much softer than the quickened, cold breeze of London. Every scent and half-heard sound tugged at some hidden thread. The sweetness of cut grass from the green across the street, the warm, yeasty aroma drifting from Simons Bakery on the corner, and something deeper she could only call home. Her chest ached with a bitter yet somehow gentle pang, torn between joy and dread.

Shed told herself she was here just for a weekendto visit her mum and finally help her sort those long-neglected bills and official letters. She wanted to walk those streets again, to see if the Oxford she remembered was still there. But, deeper down, she knew there was another reasonperhaps the real one. She was desperate to see Oliver. Maybe, just maybe, everything could change?

Clara knew he still lived nearby. She never asked directly about himshe swore she wouldnt. But mutual friends, whether in passing or over Facebook, sometimes let his name drop. Shed catch fragments: Oliver got a new job, Oliver bought a flat, Oliver moved his mum in… Each time she heard about him, shed picture his face, wonder what kept him busy, what he dreamt about nowadays… then push the thought away before it settled in her heart.

**************

The next morning, Clara set out for the city centre. She hadnt really planned her dayjust wanted to soak in the city air, see the old haunts by daylight, and let the rhythm of the streets shed grown up with carry her. She moved slowly, peering through familiar shop windows, smiling at things only she would rememberthe newsagents where shed bought comics, the bench she and her friends claimed after school, the café where shed first tried a cappuccino, nerves jangling so much she nearly spilled it all down her new blouse.

And then she saw him.

Oliver was walking on the far side of the street. He didnt spot her, his eyes locked ahead, lost in his own world. Clara stopped. Everything inside her turned upside-downher breath caught. He looked just the sametall, shoulders easy, walk relaxed and light, exactly as she remembered. His silhouette, his movements, even the same boyish haircut.

Without thinking, she rushed across the road. The pedestrian signal flashed amber, a car horn blared, but she hardly noticed. Her legs carried her; her heart was pounding loud enough for the whole High Street to hear.

Oliver! she called, breath shaking.

Her voice brokeshe hadnt realised how nervous she was. He turned, and nothing. No smile. No anger. Just nothing.

Clara? he said, calm, almost detached.

That even, flat tone hit harder than she could have guessed. Everything shed bottled up for seven years rushed out. Her eyes filled with tears, her voice trembled, and now she couldnt stop.

Oliver, I Im so sorry, she stammered, searching for words. I know I have no right to talk to you, but I she sobbed, tried to pull herself together, but the tears kept coming and she didnt bother to hide them. I love you. I always have. Please forgive me. Please!

She spoke quickly, her words tumbling, as if stopping meant not being able to start again. So many things flooded through her mind: explanations, excuses, pleas. But only the truest words fought their way to the surfacewords she had hidden for too long.

She wrapped her arms around him, clinging tightly as though she could pull the seven lost years back to them. The crowd faded away, time held its breaththere was only his warmth and the desperate hope that hed return her embrace.

For a half-second, he almost did. She felt his shoulders slacken, arm twitch upward, as though he too wanted to hold herhope sparked: perhaps not all was lost, perhaps he too held onto those memories…

But it passed. Oliver firmly gripped her shoulders and gently but unyieldingly pushed her away. His face was calm again, not unkind, but absolutely closed. His eyesthat warmth she rememberedwere shuttered, replaced by a flat coldness. The boy she had once laughed with, made wishes with, was gone. This was a grown man, feelings locked behind walls shed helped build.

Go, Clara, he murmured in her ear.

He said it quietly, without feeling, as if she no longer existed for him.

I hate you, he added, and at last, a flash of honest contempt sparked in his eyes.

He turned away and strode off, not glancing back. Clara stood motionless, stunned. Around her, life ticked on: people bustled along, cars honked at the crossing, laughter drifted from somewhere unseen A few passers-by glanced at her with curiosity, probably wondering why a young woman stood ghostly pale and tear-stained in the street. But Clara saw none of it.

Only the sound of his steps, fading further and further, and her own jagged breathing. Each moment stretched endlessly, one thought looping: Its over. For good.

She stumbled home, legs heavy, eyes fixed on nothing. Her mind was a blank echo: Olivers words, over and over.

Back in her mothers flat, she didnt even try to explain. She just moved quietly to her childhood room, sank into a chair and stared out the window. Her mum, seeing Claras tear-streaked cheeks and distant gaze, didnt question her. She just sighed softly, as if shed known this day was coming, and went to put the kettle on. The familiar whistle of boiling water, the smell of brewing teaso ordinary, so steady, and yet so jarringly at odds with the storm inside.

He didnt forgive me, Clara whispered, holding her tea so tightly the heat bit her palms. The steam brushed her cheek, but she barely felt it. Her fingers clung to the cup, as if it might somehow anchor her, and her gaze fixed on the murky amber brew, catching the reflections of the lamp above.

Her mum sat beside her, silent, laying a gentle hand on her shouldera touch as soothing and familiar as when Clara skinned her knee as a child. For a second, she felt small, fragilelike every adult decision of the past years drifted away on a breath.

You knew this would happen, her mum said softlysadly, not chiding.

I did. Clara finally tore her eyes from her cup, her voice level but exhausted, steeped in resignation. I just hoped Foolish, isnt it?

Not foolish, her mother said kindly. You chose your road. You hurt Oliverhe was devastated after youd gone. It was like watching that poor boy in The Snow Queen No ones been able to reach his heart since.

Clara let out a long sigh, set her cup aside, and sank into the chair, memories crowding in.

It all seemed so simple, so straight-forward back then. Shed been twenty-twothe age when the future is a canvas, obstacles feel temporary, and every choice seems reversible. Oliver had been theregentle, reliable, the sort you could count on for anything. Not much for fancy words, but his actions always spoke: he helped, listened, supported her in everything.

There was just one thingor at least, Clara thought so. Oliver worked on a building site, was studying building management by night, determined to start something of his own. His dreams were genuine, but they needed timeand she didnt want to wait.

She didnt want riches, not exactly. She dreamed of certainty, a day where she knew shed have a job, a home, a life she shaped herself. With Oliver, it all seemed too uncertain: piecemeal jobs, evening classes, futures that were still only stories.

So when her uncle in London offered her a job at his company, shed accepted. No hesitation, barely a second thought. Here was her chancereal, tangible, a door she couldnt turn down.

But there was another truthone she tried to forget. In that first year in London, when she was still settling in, she met Hugh. He was a businessman, twice her age, charming in a practiced way, always in control. Their meeting was a flukeat the company Christmas do, where Clara, dressed in a new blue dress, felt awkward among polished colleagues. Hugh sat next to her, started chattingwork, plans, life.

He was never stingy with his attention. At first it was little thingsflowers (not lavish bouquets, but carefully chosen from the specialist down the road), messages left with the receptionist: To the brightest in the office. Then invitations to restaurants shed only ever peered at from outside. He took her to art shows, to the theatre, gave her gifts she’d never have bought: silk scarves, delicate jewellery, heels thinner than she could balance on. Every present came with some clever remark: You deserve better, or, Dont limit yourselflet the world provide.

At first, Clara demurredawkward, declining, mumbling she didnt need any of it. But Hugh insisted, telling her it was only natural, that he was simply amazed by her wit and beauty. And little by little, she let herself enjoy it. The world glimmered: nights in chic restaurants, rides in black cabs, afternoons where she could wander into any shop and buy what she liked without blinking at the price tag. It was like a dreama shiny dream she didnt want to wake from.

At some point, she started seeing Hugh properlynot for an affair, not for love, but for the ease of it all. With him, she didnt have to fret about next months rent or saving for a suit for an interview. He made it easy, cocooning her from uncertainty.

And she liked itliked it so much that she didnt even think of the anxious young man shed left behind. Worseshe came to scorn him, saying rather nastily that Oliver would never get anywhere.

Then, on a visit home (not to see Oliver, not even to say sorry), she went for something elseto flaunt. To prove her choices, to demonstrate what shed deservedsome part of her wanted him to see how right shed been, how she’d soared beyond the muddle of their old lives.

She planned it. Chose the café, picked a gift-wrapped dress Hugh had given her for her birthday, slipped the ring hed bought on her finger, and carried a designer handbag shed just bought.

Oliver came in; she saw him straight away. She sat by the window, laughing theatrically at something Hugh said, making sure Oliver would see. Their eyes met. His gaze was bewildered, pained, heavy with something she crushed in herself long ago. But she didnt look away.

It felt like victoryshed proved her worth, her choices, her better life. But as Oliver left and she sat alone, the laughter faded. She looked down at the ring, the bag by her side, the man at her table telling some tedious story, and found only emptiness. The gifts, the gestures, all seemed hollowunreal. She smiled and responded, but for the first time, she heard a voice: Was it worth it?

************

Victory turned bitterClara didnt see it immediately, but the truth pressed in more sharply with each passing day. At first, Hugh seemed unchanged: generous, attentive, buying her flowers, calling at odd hours just to check in. But in time, his interest waned, like a candle guttering out.

It started small: the warm words slipped into criticisms. Fewer gifts, shorter texts: Pop into the shop, pick out something yourself. Then sharper wordshed criticise her appearance: Maybe look after yourself a bit more? Or her laugh: Do you have to laugh that loud, its not ladylike. Or about her old friends: Still seeing those old mates? Dont you think its time for more interesting company?

He was increasingly absent, vanishing for days, sometimes weeks, leaving her alone in the airy flat hed sorted for her. Clara spent evenings pacing, listening to the flats silence, tidying and retidying her wardrobe. If she tried to talk, repeating how she missed his company, hed wave her off:

You got what you wanted, Clara. What more do you want?

She told herself he was under stress at work; that it would pass. But deep down, she knew: she was just another shiny thing, and once the novelty had faded, so did his interest.

Still, she endured: his coldness, his edge, his absences. She was terrified of admitting the truthshed made a mistake. To admit Londons brilliant life was a sham was to admit something elsethat shed thrown away a man who truly loved her. Oliver, with all his modest ambitions, was the one who cared for her, who valued her, and not the accessories she came to covet.

Even luxury lost its glamour. Dresses shed coveted now hung limp in the wardrobe. Jewellery sparkled dully, unused. Restaurants she once pined for filled her with irritation. The hint of expensive perfume became suffocating.

She found herself staring from the window at passing strangers, thinking, What if before choking the thought off.

In those lonely evenings, as dusk crept over the city, Clara confronted the emptiness of her dreams. Shed craved certaintya life mapped out, free from worrybut in a pristine, well-appointed flat, she realised none of it mattered without someone to share it with.

Her thoughts wandered, always circling back to Oliver. His handsbig, rough, warm. His half-smilequiet, shy, so honest. The way hed talk about tomorrow: not grandiose, not theatrical, just real, just hopeful. And being with himshed never been so unafraid…

*************************

On her third day back in Oxford, Clara took a walk in the park where theyd spent so much time. There stood their old bench under the spreading maple, where theyd laugh themselves silly over nothing. She remembered Oliver, looking out at the golden leaves once, telling her, One day, I want our own home. Big windows, so the morning sun floods in. So theres always light, always happiness. Shed only smiled then, thinking it a lovely fancy. But now those words meant something elseloss, regret.

She paused, drawing in the crisp air, steadying herself. Thenshe heard a familiar voice.

Clara?

She turned. It was Tom, Olivers old mate and her friend too. He grinned, genuinely glad.

Didnt expect to see you here, he said, raising his eyebrows. Hows life?

She hesitatedwanted to sound breezy, but her voice betrayed her.

Alright. Just came to see Mum.

Tom nodded, scanning her face, but not pressing. He gestured to the bench.

Fancy a sit-down? I was just out for a wander.

Relieved, Clara agreed. They strolled slowly, Tom chatting about his job and the citys gossip. His easy, familiar tone helped Clara relax. How strange, she musedback in her hometown, running into a fragment from before.

After a lull, Tom, gentle as ever, finally asked,

Seen Oliver?

Claras eyes dropped, watching leaves swirl by her feet. She was silent a long moment, memories of that icy encounter burning in her mind. Then she murmured,

Yes. Yesterday.

Howd it go? Tom asked, his gaze steady.

He he wants nothing to do with me, Clara whispered. Every word hurt. He hates me.

Tom sighed, settling on the bench and leaned forward, fingers linked. For a minute he was silent, weighing his words.

You know, he was wrecked after you left. You just vanished. No call, no message, nothing. It was like a knife in the back for him.

Clara clenched her fists, her insides twisting. She knew this, but hearing it aloud was agony.

I know, she murmured. Its my fault.

Tom turned to look at her, not judging, just understanding.

He tried to move on. Saw someone else for a bit, but didn’t work. He says he cant feel for anyone like he did for you. Was in a bad way. And after you popped back, all dressed up, kinda flaunting it I thought hed lock himself up for good, honestly.

Clara nodded, listening to Tom fill in the edges of Olivers heartbreakthe glimpsed flinch at a similar voice, the habit of flinching at any memory. It hurt, but what hurt more was knowing she caused it.

I didnt know itd be like this, she whispered at last, more to herself. I just thought I was doing the right thing. I just wanted security.

Tom didnt argue, or offer platitudes. Instead, he just sat there, present.

The park bustled with autumn windleaves dancing, children laughing in the distance. Life went on.

Clara pressed her nails into her palms, fighting the tears pricking her eyes. Everything inside was squeezed dry by the truth: She could never fix this, never rewind, never erase what she had done.

Im not asking for his forgiveness, she managed, voice trembling. I just wanted him to know Im sorry. That isnt enoughI knowbut I regret it every day. It haunts me, Tom! Always thinking what could have been, what I wrecked

Tom looked at her long and hard, no judgment in his eyes. He chose his words carefully.

Maybe he doesnt need to know. Let him be, Clara. Dont come back here, youre making it worse. It took him years to put himself together. Your coming backit tore it all open. He called me last night, off his face. I havent seen him like that in years. Dont ruin his life, Clara.

She bit her lip, silent. Tom was right. Her returnthe hope for redemptionhad only reopened his wounds. Trying to atone, shed just made it worse.

*************************

That evening, Clara sat by her window as dusk swallowed the city, golden lamps blinking on against the advancing dark. Their glow gathered and scattered in watery mosaics. She barely noticed. Her mind reeled, playing and replaying scenesan old film she couldnt pause or eject.

She pictured what might have been, had she stayed. Their first flat, Olivers business slowly growing, the two of them planning holidays, laughing over burnt toast, hugging through the little victories. How many smiles shed missed, kind words unspoken, gentle touches never shared. She understood, clearer than ever, that the past was unchangeable.

The next morning, Clara left. She packed at a deliberate, unhurried pace, dragging out the goodbye. Her mum stood quietly by the door, face sad, not condemningjust mournful that her daughter hadnt found peace.

Look after yourself, her mum said as Clara shouldered her bag.

Clara kissed her cheek, paused for a heartbeat, inhaling the scent of familiarity, and walked out.

At the station, she bought a ticket back to Londona few hours on the train, strangers all around, time to think. Maybe, away from it all, shed see her way forward.

The train rolled out, swaying gently. Clara pressed her forehead to the glass, watching the old neighbourhood recedeblocks of flats, flower-laden balconies, playgrounds where shed once swung with friends, Simons Bakerys bright sign glowing in the gloom. People bustled through their daysshopping bags, umbrellas, hurrying late, lost in themselves. Ordinary, just as before, but impossibly far away now.

Somewhere in that tangle of rooftops, Oliver lived on. The man shed loved with her whole heart. The man whod built dreams, who worked with his hands, who once warmed her, whod never had a chance to hear her out or say goodbye. And nowhe was lost, absolutely and forever.

**************

Six months slipped past. Clara stayed in London, going to work, catching up with friends over flat whites, brushing off questions about her health and future. Outwardly, nothing was different: same schedule, same haunts, same idle chatter. But inside, shed changed for good. Shed stopped hiding the past, stopped burying it under new acquaintances, posh shops, or a packed calendar. Now she faced it, unflinchingly: she admitted her mistake, accepted the hurt shed caused, and owned her remorse.

She learned to wake up and keep moving. She learned to remind herself: Whats done is done. Theres no going back. In that acceptance was a quiet reliefnot happiness, but at last a way to keep breathing, keep looking ahead.

One evening, Clara was in her kitchen fussing with dinner when her phone buzzed. She dried her hands, checked the screena message, a number she didnt know. Just a single line: I dont hate you. But I cant forgive you either.

Her heart jolted. She gripped the phone tight, lowering herself to the kitchen floor, hugging it close as if she could hear a heartbeat through the plasticthe heartbeat of the man behind those words.

She couldnt say what it meant. She couldnt decide if it was a step toward healing, or the final full stop. But for the first time in years, she felt a thread, however thin, still tying them. Fragile, ready to snap at any careless movement, and yetit was there. Somewhere out there, someone shed loved still thought of her, enough to write despite everything. Someone hadnt quite closed the door.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as the tiniest smile shaped her lips. It was shy, uncertain, but real. Perhaps this wasnt the end. Perhaps, one day, they could talkpeacefully, honestly, without blame or performance. Perhaps theyd find the words to move ontogether or apart, but finally with clarity.

For now, it was enough to know that she had not faded from his story, not entirely. Somewhere, a part of her would always remain in his worldnot only as a regret, but as a fragment of his life.

And, for now, that was enough.

Reflecting on all this, I learned the hardest truth: choices shape more than just days; they shape the people we become, and whats lost cannot always be undone. We cannot always go back, nor force forgiveness, but we can learn to live gently with what remainsaccepting responsibility, and cherishing hope, however small, for the possibility of peace.