**Diary Entry**
If only I’d known how it would end…
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver cursing as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the opposite lane at times. Few passengers rode at this hour—midweek, mid-morning.
Gerald stared out at the grimy, melting snow. Soon it would be gone, and summer wouldn’t be far behind. Another bump, another muttered oath from the driver.
“Not sure the wheels will last the journey.”
Finally, the cemetery fence came into view, rows of headstones stark against the grey. Every visit left Gerald with the same heavy sense of fate’s cruelty, the fleeting nature of it all. He didn’t like to think he’d rest here one day. He came out of duty, not desire. Guilt gnawed at him for the thought, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus halted at the gates. Passengers stretched stiff limbs, moving toward the stalls of plastic flowers lining the fence. Gerald lingered, searching for fresh blooms. The garish waxen petals made his eyes ache. At the end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four, then stepped inside. Puddles swallowed the paths. He dodged them, but slush seeped into his old winter boots. Should’ve worn something sturdier.
Nearing the tree line, he turned left. His wife’s grave stood out by its wooden cross. “Should get a proper stone. Or let our son handle it later?” Around him, temporary markers had been replaced. The place had grown since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low railing, sinking into the snow. Wetness seeped through.
“Hello, Margaret.”
The faded photo in its frame smiled back at him. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though she’d been just thirty-six.
He recalled that birthday. He’d dashed out for flowers, returned to find her awake, dressed in a new frock. He gave her gold earrings. She’d put them on immediately, beaming. He’d captured that moment. Felt like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He hesitated, deciding where to place the carnations.
The grave was crowded with plastic blooms, bright and unchanging as if placed yesterday.
Gerald bent, plucked a wilted yellow stem from the snow near the cross, and tucked the carnations in its place. Frozen earth resisted the fragile stems; they’d topple when the snow melted. They looked modest beside the gaudy synthetics. But alive.
“I miss you. But I can’t come often. Forgive me. I’m the one who deserved this plot, not you. Life has a cruel way of…”
He talked for a long while, sharing news, until his feet went numb. Crows cawed, sharp against the silence, deepening the gloom.
“I should go. Wore these old boots and soaked through. No one to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s dry. Clean up the grave, bring a new photo—this same one. You’re too beautiful here. Forgive me.” He sighed, stepped over the railing, and left without looking back.
At the bus stop, a handful of people waited. By the time he boarded, his toes were numb.
Home at last, he peeled off wet socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two mugs of strong tea with honey. Pulled on dry woollen socks, turned on the telly, and lay down. Some film played. The warmth lulled him to sleep…
***
Emily joined the construction site straight out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckled, her smile like spring sunshine. Gerald couldn’t look away. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet this girl held his gaze. And she was always there. Hard to ignore.
One evening near Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Emily huddled into her coat collar, lamplight reflecting in her eyes. Gerald stole glances. When the bus arrived, he followed her inside, sat beside her.
“Hello, Emily. Heading home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got a real one. Left it on the balcony till the 30th, then we’d decorate together. The smell… made everything feel like Christmas.”
“Today’s the 30th. Got a real tree waiting?”
She laughed, bright and clear. Gerald was enchanted.
“My parents live miles away. I’ve got a fake one. I’ll set it up tonight, hang sweets like Mum used to. Then tea and admiring my handiwork.” Another laugh.
He pictured it—the flat, the tree, Emily reaching for the top branches… the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Can I come? Help decorate?” The words surprised even him.
“Why?”
“To trim the tree. Share tea.” He flushed at his boldness. What must she think? He rushed on, “You made it sound so… cosy. My wife and son did ours weeks ago. Feels stale. Miss the excitement.”
“Alright, then.” She met his eyes. “Come on.”
They assembled the tree, hung baubles, laughed like old friends. He sensed she felt it too—this easiness. Later, over tea, he left reluctantly.
On New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t recall the lie he’d told Margaret—no, he remembered. The look she’d given him, like she *knew*. But he couldn’t stop. Emily pulled him like a whirlpool.
He started visiting often. Emily never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sadness in her eyes. The same sadness he saw in Margaret’s when he returned.
One evening, resolved to confess, he walked home braced for tears, shouting. At least she wouldn’t keep him from their son. But Margaret met him at the door in tears.
“What’s wrong?” Had she found out? Maybe it was for the best.
His mother was in hospital. Critical. No time for confessions.
Later, they took his mum in. She couldn’t live alone. Margaret agreed without hesitation, though the burden fell on her.
Now Gerald couldn’t leave. Hired a carer, but Margaret caught her drunk one afternoon and sacked her. They decided to manage alone. Margaret quit her job to care full-time.
He went to Emily to end it. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to wreck her life. She was young—should marry, have kids, not waste time on a married man.
In the hallway, she hugged him tightly. Held on until she pushed him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself for a coward. At work, they exchanged stiff nods. Then he saw her with a young intern—glasses, shy smile. Jealousy tore through him. Days passed in a fog. Soon, Emily married the intern.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year. After the funeral, Margaret rested a month, then returned to work. A routine check-up found a tumour. Then came surgery, chemo, more surgery…
One day, he ran into Emily at the bus stop.
“You look awful. Tired or worse?”
“First Mum, now Margaret. It’s my fault. I was going to leave her that day Mum fell ill. Like punishment for loving you.”
She paled. “Then I’m punished too.”
“Why?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband left me over it.” She turned away.
“Sorry,” was all he could say.
On the bus, they sat in silence.
Margaret barely rose now, just shuffled to the loo and back. Thin as a reed. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why *her*? Why not him?
“Anything you want? You hardly eat.” He took her frail hand.
“Just sit with me.” She breathed laboured. “I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Kept waiting for you to leave. Scared, but waiting.”
“She’s gone. Long gone. Why didn’t you say?”
“Why? I loved you. Know what? I brought this on myself. Lying awake, wishing her my pain. And got it instead. I even welcomed your mum’s illness—it kept you here. You *were* leaving, weren’t you?”
“No. Never.” He couldn’t look at her.
“Doesn’t matter now. If I’d known… You’re still young. If she’s free, go to her when I’m gone.”
“Don’t talk like that—” He choked.
Watching her fade was worse than any punishment.
“I’m sorry. All my fault.” He pressed his lips to her hand and wept.
Two days later, she was gone.
***
Gerald woke from a strange dream—his whole life replayed in detail. Every mistake, every regret.
He drank water at the sink, calming his racing heart. Stared at the city lights. What’s heavier than loneliness and guilt? Reliving it all, awake or asleep.
He wouldn’t go to Emily. Two broken souls don’t make a whole. That shipHe closed the diary, wondering if anyone would ever read these words and understand—or if some lessons are only learned in silence and solitude.
