He returns home just before dawn. The taste of the past lingers on his lips.
Anthony steps over the threshold as the first light breaks. He’s been gone all night. In the hallway, he’s met by Emily—pale, tear-streaked, barefoot in her nightgown.
“Why didn’t you call?” Her voice trembles like a plucked string.
“I couldn’t… I’m sorry,” he murmurs, avoiding her gaze. He walks to the kitchen, mindlessly fills the kettle, scoops ground coffee, pours water.
He doesn’t know where to begin. What to say? How to explain that one night has reshaped him from the inside? Would Emily understand? Would she believe him?
She sits across from him, silent, making no demands. Just waiting.
Anthony pulls a neatly folded slip of paper from his pocket, smoothes it open. One glance from his wife—and she understands. A name. One word: *Olivia*. And everything clicks into place.
Three years ago. It started on an ordinary Friday.
The workweek ended, and Anthony, head of the engineering department at a construction firm, closed his office door with relief. The air was warm, thick with spring and possibility. He imagined a quiet dinner, his children’s laughter, plans for the cottage with his wife Emily. Everything as usual—until one accidental glance.
He saw her.
Fifteen years with no contact—and he recognized her instantly. Olivia. His first love. The one who once made his chest burn, his voice falter, his hands go numb.
Memories rushed back—Year 9, her golden curls, shy smiles, lowered glances. The first confession. Three years of schoolyard friendship, a kiss at prom, whispered promises… Then the cold farewell: *“I’m getting married. Our childhood is over.”*
He suffered, but life moved on. There was Emily—steady, dependable. With her, he built a family. Children, routines, ordinary days.
But that encounter… They stood face to face on the high street. Olivia spoke of an academic conference, a Saturday in the town where they grew up. He nodded but heard only the drumming of his own pulse.
In the café, past and present blurred. Olivia—successful, beautiful, married. No children yet, but that would come. She laughed, brushed his hand—and he forgot who he was, where he belonged, who expected his call.
Then came the hotel room. Champagne. Bittersweet nostalgia. That night, he was that lovestruck boy again. He kissed her hair, whispered words left unsaid in his youth. Olivia murmured, *“I never forgot you.”*
Dawn arrived like a verdict. At the train station, she cried; he stayed silent. On the platform, she pressed a crumpled note into his hand—a number. Then she vanished.
Anthony came home at sunrise. Guilty. Lost. The children emerged from their rooms—quiet, uneasy. He couldn’t even speak. Only whispered:
“I’m sorry…”
The kitchen was thick with silence. Emily sat across from him, motionless, as if listening to her own thoughts. He pulled out the note. She saw the name. Her voice cracked:
“So, Anthony? You want to go back there? Back to childhood?”
He remembered once sharing the story of his schoolboy love with her, lying beneath the stars at their cottage. She’d laughed then but remembered it all.
He walked to the window, stared at the city for a long time. Then carefully tore the note and tossed it away. He stepped closer, wrapped his arms around her, whispered:
“Forgive me. Never again. I swear.”
She didn’t push him away—but she didn’t lean in either.
“It’s over, Anthony. Youth is finished. Sort out your feelings. I’ll handle mine.”
A month passed. They lived side by side but not together. He slept on the sofa. The house drowned in heavy silence. The children whispered as if mourning—and it was grief. Not death, but lost trust.
Then one morning, Emily set a cup of tea beside his hand. In that moment, something shifted—no words, no explanations. It just returned.
She helped him carry the shame. Dragged him from the past into the present. Back to his family.
He never saw Olivia again. And he didn’t want to. Memories came softly now, tinged with sadness but no pain. It was over. Only a trace remained—light, bitter. Like morning coffee drunk alone.
