He came home just before dawn. The taste of the past still lingered on his lips.
James appeared in the doorway as the first light touched the sky. He’d been gone all night. In the hallway, he was met by Emily—pale, her eyes red from crying, barefoot in her nightdress.
*”Why didn’t you call?”* Her voice trembled like a plucked string.
*”I couldn’t… I’m sorry,”* he muttered, avoiding her gaze. He moved past her into the kitchen, mindlessly filling the kettle, spooning in ground coffee, pouring water.
He didn’t know where to begin. What could he say? How could he explain that a single night had changed him inside? Would Emily even understand? Would she believe him?
She sat across from him, silent, without accusation. Just waiting.
James reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded slip of paper, smoothing it open. One look at his wife’s face—and she knew. A name. Just one word: *”Lucy.”* And suddenly, everything fell into place.
Three years earlier. It had all started on an ordinary Friday.
The workweek was finally over, and James, head of the engineering department at a construction firm, shut his office door with relief. The air was warm, full of spring and possibility. He’d been looking forward to a quiet dinner, his children’s laughter, making plans with Emily for the cottage. Everything was as it always had been—until a single, passing glance changed it all.
He saw her.
Fifteen years without so much as a word—and he recognised her instantly. Lucy. His first love. The one who had once made his chest ache, his voice catch, his hands go numb.
Memories flooded back: Year 9, her golden curls, those shy smiles, stolen glances. The first confession. Three years of friendship, a single kiss at prom, whispered promises… And then, the cold goodbye: *”I’m getting married. Our youth is over.”*
He’d hurt, but life went on. There was Emily—steady, dependable. With her, he’d built a family, raised children, settled into routine.
But that chance meeting… They stood face to face on the high street. Lucy talked about a conference, a weekend in their old hometown. He nodded but barely heard her—only the pounding of his own heart.
At the café, past and present blurred. Lucy was radiant, successful, married. No children yet, but time ahead. She laughed, brushed his hand—and suddenly, he forgot who he was, where he was, who waited for him at home.
Then came the hotel room. Champagne. Bittersweet nostalgia. That night, he was young again, whispering words he’d never said back then. Lucy murmured, *”I never forgot you.”*
Dawn arrived like a verdict. At the station, she cried; he stayed silent. On the train, she pressed a crumpled slip of paper into his hand—her number. Then she was gone.
James returned home at sunrise, guilty, lost. The children emerged from their rooms, anxious and quiet. Words failed him. All he could manage was a whisper:
*”I’m sorry…”*
The kitchen was still. Emily sat across from him, silent, as if listening to her own thoughts. He took out the paper. She saw the name. Her voice broke:
*”So, James? Do you want to go back? Back to being a boy?”*
He remembered—once, lying under the stars at the cottage, he’d told her about his first love. She’d laughed then but remembered every word.
He walked to the window, staring out at the city. Then, carefully, he tore the paper and threw it away. He moved back to her, pulling her into his arms, whispering:
*”Forgive me. Never again. I swear.”*
She didn’t push him away—but she didn’t hold him either.
*”It’s over, James. We’re not children anymore. Sort yourself out. I’ll handle my own heart.”*
A month passed. They lived side by side, not together. He slept on the sofa. The house was heavy with silence. The children whispered as if someone had died—and in a way, someone had. Not a life, but trust.
Then one morning, Emily set a cup of tea beside him without a word. And something shifted. Unspoken, unexplained. Just there.
Little by little, she pulled him back—from regret, from the past, into the present. Into their family.
He never saw Lucy again. Didn’t want to. The memories came now and then, tinged with sadness but no longer pain. It was over. All that remained was a faint bitterness. Like coffee drunk alone at dawn.
