I Dont Hate You
Well, nothings changed
Claire ran her thumb back and forth along the fraying sleeve of her cardigan, eyes fixed outside the taxi window. Familiar streets rolled bythose same tree-lined roads where she and Tom used to dash about as kids, giggling and promising each other the world. Seven years. She hadnt been home for seven whole years.
Thats us, love, the cab driver called out, dragging her from her reverie.
The taxi gently stopped outside the tired façade of a block of flats that had definitely seen better days. Claire patted her pockets for her phone, fished out her purse, handed over a crisp tenner and a pound coinand paused for a fleeting moment, taking in the distinctly unfashionable air of her hometown. It was nothing like the big London borough she now called home. But here, every whiff of cut grass from the park, the soft scent of bread from the bakery around the corner, and something elsesomething she could only sum up as homeall rushed her in a bittersweet embrace. Her heart clenched. She was both overjoyed and absolutely terrified of whatever was coming next.
Shed only meant to stay a few daysofficially to help her mum with paperwork, that endless, soul-numbing collection of forms and forgotten bills. Secretly, she planned to walk the old haunts, see what had stood the test of time, what had crumbled, andmost importantlysee Tom. Maybe, just maybe, life would hand her a miracle.
Claire knew he lived nearby. She hadnt exactly stalked his social mediaabsolutely not, how dare you. But, of course, friends couldnt keep their mouths shut, dropping the odd Oh, you know Tom, hes a manager now bought his own place moved his mum in with him Every time she heard a snippet, shed imagine him: what he looked like now, what filled his days, whether she was still a blip on his mental radar. And then shed push those thoughts right out, horrified at how easily they took up space in her chest.
******
The next day, with no particular plan in mind, Claire wandered into the city centre. She wanted to breathe in the familiar air, linger over shop windows as she once did, soak in the pace of her old stomping grounds. There was the newsagent where she used to buy magazines, the bench outside school where she and her mates would hang about, the café where shed clumsily baptised her brand-new blouse in cappuccino during her first (and, arguably, worst) flirtation with sophistication.
And then she saw him.
Tom strode down the opposite side of the road, lost in thought. Claire froze, stomach executing a neat triple somersault. He hadnt changednot one bit. Still tall, still that relaxed, almost absentminded gait. Same hairstyle. As if hed walked straight out of her memory.
Instinct took over. She darted across the street without glancing at the light. Somewhere a horn blared, but she barely noticed. Her feet simply carried her forward, heart thumping like a failed drum solo.
Tom! she called when she finally caught up to him outside the corner shop.
The word trembled, and her nerves vibrated like shed just downed three espressos. He turned. And nothing. No smile, no wincejust a blank, polite emptiness.
Claire? he said, each syllable as flat and emotionless as a British weather forecast.
That evenness stung much worse than shed have thought. Seven years worth of emotions surged up: her eyes brimmed over, her voice shook. The floodgates were now decidedly open.
Tom, I Im so sorry, she stammered. I know, I havent got the right to be hereI just A ragged breath, hot tears streaking her face, and she didnt bother wiping them away. I love you. I still do. Im sorry. Im so, so sorry.
Words tumbled out in a mad rush, apologies and explanations and pleas, all merging together. She flung her arms around him, clinging as if those seven missing years could be hugged away. At that moment, she didnt care about gawping strangers, rumbling lorries, or the relentless tick-tock of time. Only the warmth of him mattered, and her desperate hope for a response.
Tom didnt immediately pull away. For a brief second, she felthopedhe might fold, his shoulders slackening, arms half-lifting as if to hold her back. Was this a glimmer of hope? Could it beafter all this time?
No such luck. Tom removed her hands, gripped her shoulders, and set her aside gently but firmly. His expression was unreadable, all the youth scrubbed clean away, replaced by the indifference of someone whod stuffed his feelings in a locked cupboard years ago.
Off you go, then, he murmured in her ear.
The words were cool and dismissive, said with all the warmth of a sit-in-the-cold railway bench at 7AM. Like she was just another passerby.
I hate you, he added a heartbeat later, the first hint of emotiona little flicker of contempttinting his otherwise impassive face.
And he walked away. Claire stood rooted, shell-shocked. The world trundled on regardless: people hurried by, cars moaned at the crossing, childrens laughter drifted down from somewhere unseen. A few passersby eyed her curiously, perhaps puzzling over why a young woman was frozen on the pavement, weepy and ashen. But she didnt notice.
All she could hear was the echo of his retreating footsteps, and her own ragged breathing. Each second stretched painfully, her mind repeating the same phrase: This is it. Over. For good.
She stumbled home in a daze, legs moving purely out of habit, mind mercifully blank save for the ringing memory of his words.
Her mum didnt ask for details when Claire slunk wordlessly into the flat, eyes red, hope thoroughly wrung out. She just sigheda sort of long-suffering, tea-fixes-everything sighand set about boiling the kettle. The chink of cups, the comforting fug of English Breakfast, and her mothers steady presencemundane, yet somehow grounding.
He didnt forgive me, Claire whispered over her tea, barely feeling the steam on her face.
Her mum sat beside her, gave her shoulder a familiar, comforting rub. Just the same as when Claire had fallen off her bike or returned home from a catastrophic teenage row: same touch, same gentle silence.
You knew it would be like this, love, her mum said, soft and sad, not judging.
I did, Claire replied, finally looking up from her cup. Her voice was flat, heavy with a weariness acquired from months of prepping for this exact conversation. But I hoped. Pathetic, right?
Hardly pathetic, her mum countered. But you made your choices. It wasnt easy for Tom, you know. He was like the boy from that fairy tale, the one whose heart froze over. Nobody else could melt it.
Claire leaned back, the scenes from seven years ago playing out behind her eyelids.
Back then, it had all seemed so clear-cut. Shed been twenty-twooptimistic, fizzing at the prospect of the future, every worry seemingly surmountable. Tom was solid, kind, not a romantic poet but reliable in all the ways that actually mattered: he listened, he showed up, he never promised more than he could give.
But he had, as she saw it, a flaw. Or at least something she dramatised as a flaw. He was a builder, studying for a business degree nights, dreaming of launching his own company. Sensible plans, sure, but all a bit distant. Meanwhile, she craved stabilitysomething not reliant on future maybes.
So, when her uncle from London rang up offering a job at his consultancy, she said yes. No dithering, no drama. This wasnt just a chancethis was her golden ticket.
Although, if she was honest, there was another little detail: there was Julian, the company boss. He was charming, confident, twice her age, and had a knack for getting what he wanted. They met at a work do where Claire, in a hopelessly ambitious dress, felt out of her element among all the power suits. Julian noticed her straight away, sat beside her, chatting as if they were old mates.
He wasnt shy with attention. At first, gentle bouquetsnever tacky, always tasteful. Then dinners at fancy restaurants shed only peered into in passing, art galleries, theatre nights, the odd silk scarf or pair of shoes. With each gift, a soft patter: You deserve better, Claire, you shouldnt limit yourself, embrace what life hands you.
She resistedfor a while. Politely refused trinkets, told herself she wasnt that sort. But Julian’s insistence, mixed with her own curiosity, wore her down. What began as innocent companionship snowballed into something shiny and comfortable: taxi rides, window shopping without glancing at tags, a life so glossy it felt more daydream than reality.
Eventually, she started going out with Julian. It wasnt about wild passionmore that his world seemed so much easier, so much more stable. With him, no worrying if rent would stretch or if thered be steak or beans for dinner. He took care of it all, making her life feel feather-light.
And Claire was happy with it. Or, if not exactly happy, then certainly preoccupied. Any memory of Tom, now cast as a tragic working-class figure, faded into mere background staticshe even let herself resent him for his lack of sparkle.
Then, she returned home. Not to mend bridges, mind you; she wanted to flaunt her new-found luxury. Let Tom see just how right shed been to move on, how superior her choices were.
She planned it all down to the hemchose the posh bistro Tom sometimes dropped into for coffee, donned the expensive dress Julians assistant had chosen, slipped on the chunky ring he’d gifted her after a good quarter. Sat by the window, laughed with carefully rehearsed ease. Caught Toms eye. Watched the confusion and pain cloud his face, basked in her victory.
Except, as he left and she glanced at her shiny things and her equally shiny companion, a hollow ache set in. Was it really worth it? The win felt empty, her laughter moodily tapering off as the evening dragged on.
*******
The glow faded, slowly but surely. At first, Julian maintained the imagedinners out, flowers, the odd compliment. But gradually, those gestures thinnedlike tea where someone had obviously pinched the bag from the mug far too soon.
Little irritations crept in. Instead of soft words, pointed remarks: Couldnt you try a bit harder with your appearance? and, Do you have to laugh so loudly in public? She saw less and less of him. Hed be away for days, sometimes weeks, leaving her echoing around the plush flat hed picked. Claire would spend evenings alone, tidying just to fill time, while the ticking clock mocked her.
Whenever she tried to talk to him, Julian waved her off, barely looking up: Youve got everything you wanted, didnt you? So, whats the problem?
She clung to excuses. Big job, lots of stress, she assured herself. But she knew deep down: the magic was gone. She was merely a pretty plaything, and without her novelty, hed moved onemotionally, if not physically.
She put up with itall the chilly silences, the barbs about provincial friends, the endless, exhausting absence. The real ache wasnt losing Julian; it was admitting shed been wrong. That in chasing the gloss, shed rejected the one man whod genuinely loved her, whod treasured her for who she wasand not just what she fitted into.
Gradually, even the trappings of her new life lost their sheen. The designer clothes hung limp and lifeless, the jewellery was more weight than joy. Fine restaurants tasted of little more than regret and forced small talk. The expensive perfume that once whispered freedom now simply made her queasy.
Looking out the window at faceless crowds, shed find herself thinking, What if I’d justand always cut herself off before the thought became unbearable.
On those long, silent evenings, she would picture life with Tom: sharing a scruffy flat, him chatting about business plans over beans on toast, snorting over clumsy jokes, riding through the hiccups together. All those moments shed missed, all the comfort shed scorned, loomed like a ghost she could neither banish nor embrace.
*******
On her third day home, Claire wandered through the local parkthe same one where she and Tom would wile away afternoons. The bench under the spreading sycamore was still there; she remembered how Tom once confided, staring at swirling autumn leaves: One day, I want a home of our own. Big windows, sun first thing, loads of room for happiness. Shed laughed it off then, dismissing it as just talk. Now, though, it all sounded profoundly realand achingly far away.
Shaking away nostalgia, she nearly jumped at the sudden sound.
Claire?
Spinning around, she found MikeToms old mate and, in her past life, a friend of hers too. He looked surprised, but offered a sincere, slightly lopsided smile.
Didnt expect to see you here, he said, raising a brow. Hows things?
Claire hesitated. She wanted to sound breezy, but her voice snagged. Oh, all right. Just here to visit Mum.
Mike nodded, didnt press. Instead, he pointed to the bench. Fancy sitting for a bit? I was just out on a walk, nowhere else to be really.
They settled in, Mike filling the silence with chat about the town, his work, gossip shed missed. The normality of it soothed her a little. She chipped in where she could, half-listening, half-adrift in old memories.
After a lull, Mike asked quietly, Seen Tom yet?
Claires gaze fell away, watching the dead leaves below. Images from yesterdayhis shut-down face, those hard wordsflooded back. She answered softly, Yeah. Yesterday.
And? Mike prodded, almost gently.
He doesnt want to know me, Claire breathed out, words heavy with defeat. He hates me.
Mike sat with elbows on knees, staring into the golden blur of the park. He paused, then spokedelicate, but honest.
He was a wreck for ages, Claire. You vanished. No calls, no texts. It took him ages to well, to function again.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. She knew this already, but hearing it aloud made it more real and more painful.
I know, she mumbled. Its my fault.
Mike didnt lecture, didnt pile on. He just kept his eyes on hers, voice gentle.
He tried dating, but whats the point when nobody comes close? After your grand entrance with that high-flying fella, I thought hed withdraw entirely. He was gutted.
Claire nodded in silence, the guilt and grief swirling together inside her. Shed tried to rationalise her choices, but there was no escaping the hurt theyd caused.
I wasnt thinking; I just wanted something steady. Thought I was making the smart choice.
Mike didnt argue. He sat with her a while as the wind chased leaves around their feet and distant laughter floated from the playground.
I dont expect him to forgive me, Claire forced out eventually, her voice unsteady. I just wanted him to know I regret it. I think about it, all the time. How much I ruined.
Mike watched her for a while. Finally, quietly, he said, Maybe he doesnt need to know. Leave him be nowreally, Claire. You were gone for years, and now youre back, and it has just well, kicked things up again. He rang me last night, pissed as anything. I havent seen him that bad in ages. Dont do this to him.
Claire bit her lip and nodded. She knew he was right. Her return, her confession, had healed nothingonly torn open every wound.
*****
That evening, Claire perched at the window of her mums flat, watching the soft glow of the towns streetlights shifting as dusk fell. She wasnt moved by the beauty of it all; her mind was still churning, restlessly replaying memories, the faces of people shed let slip away.
In her mind, she pictured a different reality: her and Tom muddling through together, joking about leaky roofs, celebrating small wins, sharing all those ordinary joys shed thrown away. But you cant turn back the clockand no amount of regret would conjure anything but the present.
The next day, Claire packed her bag slowly, not quite ready to leave. Mum lingered in the doorway, sadness in the tilt of her shoulders.
Take care of yourself, Mum offered, pulling her in for a squeeze.
Claire kissed her on the cheek, held on a moment longer, then headed out.
At the train station she bought a ticket back to Londontime to think. A couple of hours rattling down the tracks, staring at nothing. Maybe shed find a way forward.
As the train rolled away, Claire stared out at the shifting landscaperun-down semis, corner shops, kids on bikes, the bakery with its crooked sign. Shoppers bustled, umbrellas open out of habit, buses splashed through puddles. It was all so normal, so comfortingand so very far away from who she was now.
Somewhere in those streets, was the man shed loved above all others. The man with hope in his eyes, rough hands gentle in hers. The one she hadnt even bothered to explain things to, just up and left. And he was lost to herno matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise.
*******
Six months passed. Claire settled back into London life: nine-to-five, the odd drink with friends, fielding cheery questions about her exciting future. On the surface, nothing had changed. Underneath, everything had. Shed finally stopped running from the past, no longer burying it under work, shopping, or new acquaintances. She owned her mistake, and admitted the pain shed left behinda strange, sobering freedom replacing denial.
She learned to get up and get on, repeating to herself, Its done now. I was wrong, but I cant undo it. There was comfortif not joyin acceptance.
One evening, as she chopped onions for dinner, her phone buzzed. Drying her hands on her apron, she checked the screen. A message. Unknown number.
I dont hate you. But I cant forgive you either.
Claire froze, clutching the phone to her chest as her heart stuttered, then raced double-time. She slumped onto the kitchen floor, holding the message like a lifeline, trying to imagine Toms voice in those words.
She didnt know what it meantnot an invitation, not quite a final goodbye. Maybe not closure, but not nothing either. For the first time in ages, she feltif only by a threada connection. Hed thought of her. Hed written, even if it cost him. Hed left something open, if only a crack.
Claire smiled, tears gathering in her eyes. The smile trembledbut it was real. Maybe it wasnt the end. Maybe, someday, theyd talkhonestly, calmly, with none of the old blame or excuses. Maybe theyd find enough words to finally move forwardtogether, or separately, but with understanding.
For now, knowing she still lived in a corner of his headthat she was more than a mistake, but still a part of his storywas enough.
And, at last, Claire could breathe.
