**Diary Entry**
The phone rang. “Hello, Emily?” The voice was familiar, pulling me from my thoughts. Breath caught in my throat, fingers gripping the receiver too tight. If not for the hum of the telly, my heart might have woken Henry.
“I missed you. Couldn’t wait any longer. I think of you constantly. Let’s meet,” the man’s voice was smooth, too real.
I slipped out of the bedroom, easing the door shut. Pressed against the hallway wall, legs unsteady. “Emily, are you there?” The voice lured and frightened in equal measure. I should’ve ignored the call, never answered. Should’ve glanced at the screen first.
For months, I’d tried forgetting that reckless night. Told myself I had a stable marriage, a good husband. Henry and I had been together since secondary school—quiet, bookish Henry, always top in maths and physics. Never the lad the girls fancied, nicknamed “Darcy” for his spectacles and solemn ways.
I’d preferred lads with charm, the sporty, cheeky ones. Then, years later, we bumped into each other in London. Henry wore contacts now. “Not half bad,” I’d thought then.
He’d finished uni while I was still in medical school. We swapped numbers—just in case. Five years since school, a reunion was planned. He rang days later, asked me to the cinema. “Go,” Mum had said. “Or you’ll end up a spinster.”
So I went. He proposed not long after. “You’re hesitating? Take him—he’s steady,” Mum advised. And so I did.
Our marriage was calm. Arguments, if any, were my doing. Our daughter arrived, doted on by both grandmothers. A second child never happened—passion hadn’t either. Still, he was dependable. Not like the husbands my colleagues wept over, their betrayals and messy divorces.
Our girl grew up, studied design in London, lived lavishly on her grandparents’ indulgence. Henry, ever the same.
Then, six months ago, I was promoted to lead the clinic. Conferences followed—tedious, until *him*.
Isaac. Tall, young, magnetic. The women at the conference noticed. Flirtation thickened the air, but I kept my distance—until the closing gala.
“I’m slipping out,” I’d muttered to myself.
“Stay,” urged my roommate. “Networking matters.”
So I did. Wine flowed; dignified doctors traded bawdy tales. I sipped politely, laughed when expected. Then music swelled, and he appeared beside me. “Bored? Let’s escape.”
We wandered hotel corridors, green carpets muffling our steps. “Come to my room. I’ve a bottle of Bordeaux—no one to share it with.”
I went. I still don’t know why.
The kiss was inevitable. The night, a blur of heat and shame. By dawn, we clung to each other, knowing it couldn’t last.
“Stay another day,” he’d begged.
“I’m married.”
“You’re unhappy.”
I dressed in silence, left before the lie crumbled.
Back home, Henry met me at the station. Chattered about his week. I barely heard him. That night, when he reached for me, I turned away.
Now, months later, the phone call shattered the fragile peace I’d rebuilt.
“I’m at the Kingsbury Hotel. Come when you can.”
I hung up. Ironed laundry mechanically.
“Who rang?” Henry mumbled, stretching.
“Wrong number,” I lied.
Lunch was tense. “You’re not eating,” he observed.
“Claire rang. Her boy’s ill—I’ll pop over.”
He paused, fork midair. “You said no one called.”
No more lies. I left.
Outside the hotel, I hesitated. *Turn back. Tell him it’s over.*
Then Isaac saw me. His hand on mine sent a current through me.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
“Leave. Forget me.”
But my body betrayed me. Dawn came too soon.
Henry waited on the sofa when I returned.
“You love him?” he asked.
Silence.
“Don’t leave. I’d be lost without you.”
And he would.
Morning crawled. At the station, the train was already moving. I ran, stumbling, until I saw him—Isaac, flinging the door open, leaping onto the platform.
“What now?” I wept.
“We’ll be alright.”
The train vanished. We stood, clinging.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t fair. But neither is regret.
