“Don’t Regret It. Means He Didn’t Love You.”
“You won’t freeze in that dress? It’s minus ten outside, and they say it’ll drop even lower tonight,” Emma’s mother said, peering into her daughter’s room.
“I’ll be fine, it’s just next door. I can’t wear jeans to a birthday party,” Emma replied, adjusting the belt of her dress in front of the mirror.
“Is Tom picking you up?” her mum asked.
“No, he said he’s running late. His mate’s computer crashed, and he’s fixing it,” Emma answered airily.
“He could finish tomorrow if he’s short on time. It’s not right, you going alone,” her mother pressed.
“Mum, no one cares about that these days. What’s the big deal? So we won’t arrive together—who even notices? Anyway, I’m late.” Emma stuffed her heels into a bag and headed for the hall.
She knew her mum didn’t like Tom. Ever since he’d kissed Emma right in front of her. “It’s not proper. There ought to be some decency,” she’d scolded after he’d left.
Emma pulled on warm boots, a long down coat, and wrapped a thick scarf around her neck.
“No hat?” her mum exclaimed.
“I curled my hair—what’s the point of a hat? Bye, I’m off.” Emma unlocked the door and hurried out.
Her mother called something after her, but she was already down the stairs, looking forward to a fun evening and seeing Tom.
Their romance had been fast and intense. Emma hoped he’d propose soon.
The icy air bit her face and hands, creeping under her coat. She tugged the scarf higher, burying her nose in it, and quickened her pace to Sophie’s house. “If only Tom would hurry,” she thought. She’d called him half an hour ago. “Don’t distract me, and I’ll be quicker,” he’d snapped. She hadn’t rung again.
In the stairwell, Emma pushed the scarf aside. She skipped the lift, taking the stairs to warm up. Though Sophie lived just two streets over, the cold had already seeped into her.
The flat door was ajar, music spilling out. Probably left open by someone stepping out for a smoke—or Sophie leaving it unlocked for latecomers. “Good. Less attention on me,” Emma thought, stepping into the dim hallway. The thumping bass and chatter hit her like a wall.
She shed her coat, stuffing the scarf into a sleeve. The hooks were crammed with bulky jackets—Sophie had invited half the town. Emma squeezed hers onto a hook, slipped into her heels, shivered, and stepped into the room.
Bright lights blinded her after the dark hallway; the music made her heart race. A dozen lads and girls danced around the table, filling the space. No one noticed her. She scanned the crowd for Sophie but couldn’t spot her.
Edging past the dancers, Emma headed for the kitchen. Just as she reached the glass door, it swung open. Sophie barrelled into her, cheeks flushed, fever-bright eyes, a triumphant smile—which faltered when she saw Emma.
Tom appeared behind Sophie, smoothing his mussed hair.
“You’re here already?” Emma asked, eyes darting between them.
Sophie recovered fast, grinning as if nothing was wrong. “Party’s in full swing! Late as usual. Fancy a dance? Or a drink first?” She breezed past Emma.
“You didn’t call. Didn’t even notice I wasn’t here—or were you too busy?” Emma’s voice was thick with hurt.
“Didn’t get a chance. Just got here myself.” Tom leaned in to kiss her, but she flinched back.
She caught the scent of Sophie’s perfume.
“Em, what’s wrong? We were just slicing sausage,” Tom defended.
“Wipe the lipstick off your cheek. Give her this.” She shoved the gift bag at him, dodging his grasp, and pushed through the crowd toward the exit.
In the hall, she kicked off her heels, jammed her feet into boots, snatched her coat, and fled. The scarf slipped from the sleeve onto the stairs. As she bent to grab it, Tom burst out after her. She bolted down the steps.
“Em, you’ve got it all wrong!” he shouted.
Outside, the cold slapped her face again. She remembered the forgotten heels but wouldn’t go back. “How could he? Came early, didn’t call, didn’t look for me… And Sophie—some friend. Traitors…” Sobs choked her as she walked the opposite way from home. She only snapped out of it when her lashes froze stiff and her nose went numb.
“Where now? Home? Mum’ll fuss, say she never liked Tom… Maybe the cathedral? They’ll have midnight mass. No—too crowded, too far.”
Emma looked around. She’d wandered farther than she thought. She ducked into a shop to warm up, regretting the thin dress. The cold gnawed through her coat. “I’ll catch pneumonia. Fine. Let them feel guilty while I’m ill…” Her nose ran; melted frost and tears smudged her mascara.
The shop was empty. The bored cashier eyed her curiously. Emma draped the scarf over her head, wrapped the ends around her neck, and stepped back into the cold.
Suddenly, crunching footsteps and heavy breathing came from beside her. She turned—a bloke in all black, hood up, kept pace.
They were alone on the street. Emma sped up, but he matched her stride. Soon, she was panting.
“Running from someone?” he asked.
She ignored him, hoping he’d leave. He didn’t.
“Someone hurt you? Bloke ditch you? Don’t regret it. If he left, he didn’t love you,” he said.
Emma stopped, ready to snap—what’s it to you?—but under the hood, his gaze was kind, not threatening. She looked down and walked on.
They reached her building in silence.
“Cheers for walking me,” she said at the door.
“Anytime. Didn’t reckon you should be alone. I’m James. You?”
“Emma. Now you’ll ask for my number?” she scoffed.
“Would you give it?” he countered. His tone told her he was smiling, though his face was shadowed.
“Why not? Memorise this.” She rattled it off. “Bye.” She turned to the door.
The quiet behind her said he hadn’t followed.
“I’ll call!” James shouted as she stepped inside.
Climbing the stairs, Emma realised—she wasn’t crying over Tom anymore.
“Good time? You’re back early,” her mum called from the sofa, waiting for the Christmas service on telly.
“Too cold out,” Emma said, retreating to her room.
Only then did the weight of betrayal crush her. She’d lost Tom and Sophie in one night. “Don’t regret it. Means he didn’t love you,” James’s words echoed.
“Means he didn’t love you,” she whispered, crying into her pillow.
The choir’s hymns drifted from the telly as the full moon glowed blue through her window.
James called the next day, asking her to the cinema.
“Too frosty for ice-skating. Fancy it?”
“Why not? He’ll help me forget Tom,” Emma decided. Over coffee after, they talked easily. They met every day after that.
Tom never called. Sophie dropped by with the forgotten heels.
“Big deal, we had a drink, a snog. Nothing else happened,” Sophie defended, trying to patch things up.
The exchange was stiff. It wasn’t just the kiss—Sophie had seized the moment Emma was gone. Worse, Tom hadn’t bothered to fetch her, call, or chase after her. If he’d loved her, he would have. So why regret him?
Soon, James proposed.
“You barely know him. Why rush?” her mum fretted.
“Did you know Dad well when you married? How long did you date?”
“Two years,” her mum sighed.
“Two years, and you still didn’t see he’d betray you. Time doesn’t matter—it’s what comes after.”
“You’re all grown up,” her mum murmured, hugging her.
A year later, Emma and James had a son; three years on, a daughter.
Emma couldn’t imagine life without him—kind husband, devoted father. What more could she want? Only to grow old together, raise their kids, meet grandkids—maybe even great-grandkids—and leave this world side by side, having drunk life to the dregs.
They say marriages are made in heaven. Maybe someone arranged their meeting that frosty Christmas Eve.
Miracles don’t just happen in fairy tales—sometimes, on the cusp of Christmas.
But where or when you meet doesn’t matter. What counts is finding your other half. Not missing them. Not walking past.
