I Don’t Hate You

I never hated you.

Everythings the same, isnt it…

Mary nervously tugged at the end of her sleeve, gazing out the taxi window. Familiar streets flashed by outsidethose very roads where she once ran with William, laughing and weaving dreams for a future that now felt impossibly distant. Seven years… Seven years since shed last been home.

Weve arrived, came the gentle voice of the driver, breaking through her reverie.

The cab eased to a stop in front of the old red-brick block of flats. Mary instinctively checked for her phone, pulled some notes from her purse, paid the fare in pounds, and stepped into the crisp London air. The door thudded shut behind her, and for a moment, she stood perfectly still, breathing in the scents of her old neighbourhood. It was truly different herenothing like the great city she now called home. Every smell and murmur seemed to awaken something deep within her. There was the green hit of freshly mown grass from the little park, a waft of warm bread drifting over from the bakery on the corner, and something elsesomething impossible to pin down, that could only be called home. Her heart ached as she took it in, the sweetness and pain mingling until she wasn’t certain if she longed for what would come, or feared it.

She was only back for a few days. Officially, it was to visit her mother and sort through a heap of paperwork that needed attention. She planned to wander old haunts, quietly searching for pieces of her memory that might still linger unchanged. Deeper down, though, was another reasona desperate, fluttering wish to see William again. If she didwould her life change?

Mary knew he lived nearbythough shed never asked about him directly, never stalked him online. But friends, during the rare chance encounters or messages exchanged, would sometimes mention his name. Thats how she pieced together scraps of news: hed switched jobs, landed a fine position, bought a flat, moved his mother in. Each time she heard about him, shed picture what he must look like these days, what he was doing, what he might be thinking. Then shed hurry away from those thoughts, afraid to leave them too much space in her heart.

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

The next morning, Mary decided to walk through the town centre. She made no particular plansshe simply wanted to breathe the air again, see the old familiar places in daylight, feel the rhythm of the streets shed once known so well. She strolled slowly, peering into shop windows, flashing fleeting smiles whenever she saw something that jolted a memory: the newsagent stall where she used to buy comics, the bench where she and her friends gossiped after school, the café where shed tasted her first cappuccinoand nearly spilled it down her new blouse.

Thats when she saw him.

William was crossing the street on the far side. He hadnt noticed herhis gaze was fixed ahead, chin dipped in thought. Mary froze. Something turned over inside her so violently that she forgot to breathe. He hadnt changed at all: still tall, with that same easy, relaxed stride she remembered from their youththe same outline, the same way he moved, even the same mop of hair.

Without thinking, she dashed across the road. The traffic light blinked yellow, a horn blared somewhere, but she hardly heard it. Her body carried her forward while her heart thundered, so loud she felt it echoed off the city walls.

William! she called out, catching up to him outside the chemists.

Her voice shookshe hadnt realised how nervous she was until that moment. He turned to her and nothing. There was no joy in his eyes, no anger either. Nothing.

Mary? he said, his voice so calm, almost indifferent.

That toneso flat, stripped of all emotionhit her harder than shed expected. Everything bottled up over those seven years suddenly rushed to the surface. Her eyes filled with tears, her words tumbled out, shaky and halting.

William, I Im so sorry, she managed, fumbling for the right words. I know I dont even have a right to stand here, but I she choked, struggling to collect herself, yet the tears kept coming and she didnt bother to wipe them away. I love you. I still do. Forgive me. Please, just forgive me!

She spoke hurriedly, jumbled and raw, afraid that if she paused for a moment, shed never continue. In her head, countless explanations and pleas contended for their saybut only the most important slipped through. The ones shed held back all those years.

She reached for him, clutching him tight, as if she could recapture everything lost over seven years with one desperate movement. In that moment, there was nothing beyond the warmth of his body against hers and the fragile hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he would hold her back.

William didnt pull away at once. For a fleeting heartbeat she thought he softenedhis shoulders relaxed, his arms almost starting to return her embrace. That little shift sparked hope in her: maybe all was not lost, maybe hed carried these memories, too. Maybe, just maybe, they had a future.

But the moment faded. William clenched her shoulders gently but firmly, setting her away from him. His face was impassive, eyes cool, his voice when he spoke a distant thing.

Go, he whispered close to her ear.

It came out so quietly and so utterly flat, as if she meant nothing to him, as if she were a stranger not worth his time.

I hate you, he added after a pause. This time, she saw the sharp flash of contempt in his eyes.

He turned and walked away, not looking back once. Mary stood there, stunned as if struck. The world kept rolling along around her: people rushing by, cars honking at the crossing, children laughing somewhere out of sight. Someone glanced her way, perhaps wondering why a young woman stood motionless in the middle of the street, face wet and pale. But she saw none of it.

She heard only the echo of his footsteps and her own ragged breathing. Each second stretched endlessly, her mind replaying the same, dreadful refrain: Its over. Forever.

Mary slowly wandered home. Her legs heavy, each step a struggle, she moved without purpose, eyes fixed on some distant point. There was nothing in her mind: no thoughts, no feelings, just the dull hammer of his words.

When Mary entered her mothers flat, she didnt attempt a word of explanation. She simply went to her room, dropped onto a chair and stared out at the grey London sky. Her mother, seeing her daughters tear-streaked face and hollow stare, didnt ask questions. She just heaved a quiet sigh, as if shed been expecting this all along, and went to boil the kettle. The familiar whistle, the smell of black teait all felt so commonplace, such a sharp contrast to the chaos inside Mary. Yet, it was that very ordinary kindness that started to pull her back to earth.

He didnt forgive me, Mary whispered, clutching the hot mug. The warming steam curled around her face, but she hardly noticed. Her fingers tightened around the cup as though to anchor herself, her gaze fixed on the amber surface of the tea, reflecting the dull glow of the lamp.

Her mother sat beside her, silent, gently stroked her shouldera gesture so familiar from childhood, when Mary would come home with grazed knees or after falling out with a friend. Somehow, that simple touch made her feel small again, fragile, as if every adult certainty of recent years had been washed away.

You knew it would be like this, her mothers words carried no accusation, just a quiet sadness.

I did, Mary admitted, finally looking up from her cup. There was a strange steadiness in her voice, the exhaustion of someone whod rehearsed this confession countless times. But I hoped. Foolish, isnt it?

Its not foolish, her mother replied softly. You chose your path. You hurt William badlyhe took a long time to recover after you ended things. He was like like the boy from that old fairy tale, his heart turned to glass. No one else could touch it.

Mary let out a trembling sigh and set her mug down, letting her head fall against the back of the chair. Scenes from seven years before blossomed unbidden in her mind.

Back then, everything had seemed so clear, so straightforward. She was twenty-twothe age when the world gleams and every hurdle seems insignificant. William was there: kind, solid, the sort of dependable man shed always trusted to be at her side. He was not a poet, nor good with grand declarations of lovebut his actions always spoke for him. He was the first to help, to listen, to offer a gentle word.

But there had been a problemor what Mary told herself was a problem. William worked on building sites, studied through open university, dreamed of one day starting his own business. His plans were steady and serious, but slow-burning. Mary did not want to wait.

She hadnt dreamed of richesjust stability, certainty, the solid shape of her own future. She wanted to know that, in a year, or two, or five, shed have work, a home, a life on her own terms. With William, everything was a question: a jumble of temporary jobs, night classes, dreams not yet made real.

When her uncle in London offered her a job at his firm, she acceptedhardly stopping to think. It was a real, tangible opportunity she couldnt bear to pass up.

And there was another truthone Mary tried not to dwell on. When she made that move, and found her footing in London, a new man appeared in her life: Edward, a businessman twice her age, with a quiet confidence and a way of always getting what he wanted. Their paths crossed at a work dinner. Edward sat beside her, asked about her plans and her ambitions. He didnt make grand gesturesat first, a few thoughtful bouquets to the office with a handwritten card: For the brightest mind here. Then came dinner invitations, then gallery openings, evenings at the theatre, small luxuries shed never imagined: silk scarves, delicate jewellery, sleek high heels. Each gift came with a gentle lecture about not denying herself, about learning to accept what life offered.

At first, Mary balkedshe wouldnt accept gifts, she would protest she didnt want them. Edward was undeterred, explaining that it was nothing but simple affection and admiration. Little by little, she was drawn in. The new world dazzled her: evenings at fine restaurants, black cabs at the kerb, the thrill of splashing out in shops without peering at the price tag. She could hardly believe it was her life.

Somewhere amidst all that, she and Edward began seeing each otherbut it was never passion that pulled her. It was the security of his world: with him, there were no worries about rent, no fretting over bills, no guesswork about the future. It was all arranged, peaceful, the anxiety dulled.

She liked that life. Liked it enough to forget, completely, about the broken-hearted boy shed left behind. Worse stillshe even grew to think less of him, telling herself that William would never amount to anything.

When Mary at last came back to her hometown, it wasnt to see William, or to talk, or even to say a quiet hello. She wanted something else: to show him the life shed won, to prove shed chosen well and was now living as she deserved. Deep inside, she hoped hed see her now, and that hed understandher choice was right, her path was correct, shed escaped the uncertainty of their old love.

She planned the visit carefully, picking a café on the High Street, the very place she knew William often popped in for a coffee after work. She wore an expensive dressa birthday present from Edwardits neat lines and slim belt showing her new place in the world. On her finger sparkled a ring; she carried her latest designer bag.

The moment William entered, she spotted him at once. She sat at the window, laughinglouder than she needed toat something her companion said, arranging herself so William could not miss her. Their eyes met. She saw confusion, pain, disbelief flicker across his faceeverything shed worked so hard to ignore in herself. But she refused to look away; she would not budge.

She told herself it was a victory thenproof that shed made the right call, that life was concrete now, full of choices and purpose, not just dreams. She insisted to herself it was fulfillment, that shed earned what shed reached for.

But when William left the café and she was left behind, the ring, the bag, the companionnone of it felt like a victory. As her laughter faded, a kind of emptiness took its place, cold and quietly growing. All those elegant things, the admirable attentionsuddenly artificial and hollow. She kept up the smiling and the small talk, but inside, a small voice whispered: Was it worth it?

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

Mary didnt grasp the bitterness of her victory straight away. Gradually, the truth made itself known, creeping in day by day. Edward still played the part of generous partnerat first. He took her out, sent flowers, paid compliments. But slowly, his interest began to fade, like a candle burning low.

She noticed it in little things: instead of tender words, a brisk nod; instead of a bouquet, a quick text: Pop into the shop if you want something. In time, there were stinging criticisms about her appearance: You could try to keep yourself up a bit, dont you think? her giddy laugh: Isnt that a bit much, Mary? It sounds common. Even her old friends were criticised: Still seeing those tic-tac mates from school? Dont you think its time you branched out?

He was around less and less. Sometimes hed disappear for days and weeks. Mary was left alone in the spacious flat he paid for, filling the silences with the ticking of the clock, or rearranging her clothes while the hours passed. Any time she tried to talk, tried to explain she needed more from their relationship, Edward shrugged, eyes averted.

You have what you wanted. What more do you want?

Mary kept making excuses: Hes busy, business is stressful. Or else: He just needs space. She told herself this would pass, and that she was being too needy. But she knew deep down: it wasnt business, wasnt fatigue. Shed become just another shiny bauble for himeye-catching, fun for a while. And when the shine wore off, he lost interest.

She put up with it: the barbed comments, the silences, the long nights by herself. She endured it because admitting the truth would mean owning up to something much worse: that shed made a mistake. That her new, golden life was hollow. That Williama builders son with rough hands and big dreamshad loved her for herself, not for glamour or image.

Even the surface comforts lost their sweetness. Clothes shed once admired wilted in the wardrobe. Jewellery, once thrilling, lay forgotten in the drawer. The restaurants she first adored began to grate, the lights too dim, the food too dainty, the celebration too forced. Even the scents she once relished began to make her feel ill.

More and more often, she found herself staring out the window, watching strangers hurry bywondering, What if… But she would cut off the thought, refusing to let it grow, for fear of what answer would await: What now?

During those lonely evenings, as dusk pressed against her windows, Mary realised her dreams of certainty and comfort were false. It struck her that, without someone to share it with, stability meant nothing. She pictured what life could have beenif shed stayed. If theyd rented their first flat together, built up Williams little business, planned for the future, laughed off the setbacks, celebrated the triumphs. How many happy moments had she missed? How many gentle words, how many touches had gone unsaid? The past was out of reach, and she knew it now more clearly than ever.

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

On her third day home, Mary walked through the park theyd once wandered together. Thereunder the sycamoretheyd spent so many idle hours chatting about nothing, laughing until the sun went down. She remembered William turning to her once, gazing at the sycamores golden leaves. One day, Mary, well have a house with big windows, hed said softly. So the sunlight floods in every morning. And itll always be bright and happy there. Shed only smiled, thinking it all a dream. Now, those words rang with a sad finalitylost, for good.

She stood a while, breathing the chill air, trying to clear her thoughts. Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice.

Mary?

She turned. In front of her was Toma friend from their old lives. Surprise flickered over his face, quickly replaced by a gentle smile.

Didnt expect to see you out and about, he said, arching his brow. How are you?

Mary hesitated a moment, searching for the right tone. She wanted to sound breezy, but despite her best effort, her voice wobbled.

Im all right, she replied, conjuring a smile that was for once not altogether forced. I came to see my mum.

Tom nodded, giving her a long, appraising look, but kept his questions to himself. Instead, he pointed at a bench close by:

Fancy a sit-down? I was only wandering, not much of a plan today.

Mary agreed, following him to the bench. On the way, Tom spoke of his life, the latest news, the changes around town. His tone was calm, his manner easy; it soothed her. Mary listened, offering the odd comment, lost in the oddness of it allher return to a town where every turn recalled the past, and now, this meeting with a thread from the old days.

Tom paused, quiet for a heartbeat, then asked in a measured tone:

You seen William?

Marys gaze dropped to the leaves at her feet. Her memory reeled through the nightmare of the other dayof Williams cold eyes, of those short, wounding words. Finally, she whispered:

Yesterday.

How was it? Tom asked, watching her carefully.

He he wants nothing to do with me, Mary got out, each word costing her. Her voice was steady, but crushed beneath the pain she tried to hold at bay. He hates me.

Tom sighed and sat back, elbows on knees, eyes flicking out toward the parks gold-washed path where children squealed around the fountain. He sat silent for a time, then at last spoke quietly:

You know, he never really recovered. You just vanished on him, Mary. No call, no note. For him, it was a knife in the back.

Mary clenched her hands in her lap, feeling herself shrink into the shame. She knew, but somehow hearing it from another was worse than shed imagined.

I know, she breathed, eyes fixed on the ground. I know its my fault.

Tom glanced at her but didnt scold, didnt press matters. He spoke mildly, as if recalling something far-off:

He tried to move on, you know. Saw some other girls, but it never worked. Told me he couldnt love anyone like he did you. It was bad, Mary. And after you strutted back I thought hed break for good.

She nodded, silent. She pictured William forcing himself to forget her, bracing against memories, jolting every time a voice or a song brought her back. That knowledge was agonynot only because of his suffering, but because it was she who had caused it.

I never meant it to go this way, she murmured, more to herself than to Tom. I thought it was right. I just wanted to feel safe.

Tom didnt argue; he simply kept her company. The wind rustled, yellow leaves danced on the air, the world went on as ever.

Mary dug her nails into her palms, fighting the rising tears, but they spilled anyway. The real pain was this: she couldnt fix it. She couldnt turn the clock back or take away the harm shed done.

I dont want his forgiveness, she managed, voice trembling with the effort. I only wanted him to know Im sorry. Not a day goes by that I dont regret it. I keep playing it all backhow it was, what Ive thrown away.

Tom watched her carefully, without judgment. He weighed his words carefully before speaking.

Maybe he doesnt need to know, he said, in a voice gentle but firm. Leave him be, Mary. Its kinder. He took a long time to put himself back together after you left. Hes just learned to copebut you coming back, dredging it all up again Last night he rang me, drunker than Ive seen him in years. Pleasedont destroy him all over again.

Mary bit her lip, holding back a fresh wave of tears. She knew Tom was right. Her sudden reappearance had only torn open the wounds William had spent years trying to close. She might have wanted to ease her guilt, but perhaps all shed done was hurt him more.

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

That evening, Mary sat at her mothers window, watching the city flicker to lifeyellow, orange, white lights weaving into a shifting tapestry. The world glittered outside, but she hardly noticed. Her thoughts whirled without rest, a ceaseless stream of images from the long past.

She imagined another lifeif shed stayed. They would have rented that first poky flat, soldiered through Williams apprenticeship, built little dreams day by day. With him, every small moment wouldve mattered: the cracked tiles, the leaky tap, the laughter and the gentle words unspoken. The thought cut her deeplynone of it could be reclaimed.

The next morning, Mary left. She packed her things quietly, her mother hovering by the door, grief in her eyes, not blame.

Look after yourself, her mother said as Mary stood in the hall, bag in hand.

Mary nodded, kissed her mothers cheek, breathed one last time the scent of home, and walked out into the chill.

At Paddington, she bought a train ticket back to London. She needed to thinkperhaps a couple of hours on the train, among strangers, would help untangle her thoughts.

As the train eased from the station, Mary stared out the window. Londons outskirts filmed past: rows of terrace homes, playgrounds where shed once laughed, the bakery with its cheerful sign. People hurried aboutsome with crinkled shopping bags, some with umbrellas against the harmless sky. All so ordinary, but now impossibly far away.

Somewhere, among those streets, was the man shed loved most in the world. The man whose eyes had lit up at the sight of her, whose hands were equally skilled at building or holding her own. The man shed not found the time to explain herself to, or the decency to say goodbye. Now, he was lost to hershe understood that, however much she whispered to herself that it might not be too late.

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

Six months passed. Mary carried on in London, did her job, met friends for coffee, fielded casual questions about her health and plans. Outwardly, nothing had changed: same routine, same places, same conversations. But inside, everything was transformed. She no longer ran from her past; she didnt try to bury it under new encounters, new clothes, relentless busy-ness. She looked it in the face now and owned it: the pain shed caused and her own remorse.

She learned to wake with the thought that life marches forward anyway. She told herself: I did what I did. It was wrong, but I cant undo it. I must live with it now. And in this acceptance came, if not joy, at least a breath of easea steadiness, a future, however uncertain.

One evening as she prepared her dinner, her phone pinged quietly with a new message. She wiped her hands, picked it up: an unknown number. Only a single, stark sentence on the screen: I dont hate you. But I cant forgive you.

Mary froze. Her fingers closed tight around the phone, her heart stilled a second, then lurched onwards, faster than before. She slid to the kitchen floor, pressing the phone to her chest, as if searching for the heartbeat behind those words.

She didnt know what it meant, didnt know how to take itas a way forward, or a final goodbye. But for the first time in a long while, she sensed a thread was left untied. Fragile, ready to snap at the wrong touch, but a connection all the same. Somewhere, far off, someone else was thinking of her. Someone had reached out, despite the hurt. Someone hadnt shut the door entirely.

Mary smiled through her tears. It was a tentative, uncertain smile, but it was real. Perhaps it wasnt the end. Perhaps one daywithout accusation or defencethey would talk again, and find, between them, the words to move ontogether, or apart, with understanding at last.

For now, it was enough to know he still thought of her now and then. That somewhere, however far away, she wasnt only a regret, but a part of someone elses story.

And for now, that was enough.