**Diary Entry**
The flight was tomorrow, but I’d deliberately booked an early departure. Three years divorced, and in all that time, Oliver and I had managed to live in the same city without crossing paths once. Now, as I fiddled with my handbag strap in the check-in queue, I was determined not to disrupt that fragile balance.
“Seat 12A,” I noted, relieved—a window seat, just how I liked it. Onboard, I pulled out my book, a novel I’d started yesterday and couldn’t put down. A story about love, betrayal, and forgiveness. Once, I’d avoided such plots, but time had dulled the sting.
“Emily?” The voice made me jump. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I looked up slowly. Oliver stood in the aisle, gripping his suitcase handle. Still as put-together as ever in that grey blazer he loved, though streaks of silver now threaded his temples—new since I’d last seen him.
“You’re never early,” I blurted instead of hello.
“And you always plan ahead,” he replied, fishing out his boarding pass. “Ah. 12B.”
My cheeks burned. Three hours beside the man I’d spent years avoiding. Fate had a cruel sense of humour.
“I can swap with someone—” he began.
“Don’t bother,” I cut in. “We’re adults.”
He nodded and took his seat. His cologne—that same scent—pricked at something deep inside. How many mornings had I woken to it?
“How’s work?” he asked once we were airborne, the silence growing unbearable.
“Good. Opened my own yoga studio,” I said evenly. “Still at the firm?”
“No, moved into consulting. Remember how I always wanted to?”
Of course I remembered. Just as I remembered the arguments—me clinging to stability, him chasing change. Now, years later, we’d each gotten what we wanted. So why did my chest ache?
“Mum will be glad to see you,” Oliver said after a pause. “She still has that ceramic vase you gave her last birthday.”
“Margaret was always…” I trailed off, searching for the right word. “Kinder to me than I deserved.”
“Never stopped calling you her favourite daughter-in-law.”
My eyes pricked. I reopened my book, hiding my face.
“What’re you reading?” He glanced at the cover.
*”The Weight of Forgiveness,”* I said. We both fell silent, the irony hanging between us.
The rest of the flight passed quietly, but it was a different quiet—not strained, but almost comfortable, like the old days. When we landed in Bristol, Oliver helped me with my bag.
“Share a cab?” he offered. “We’re headed the same way.”
I hesitated. Three years ago, we’d parted certain we’d never share space again. Yet here we were, and the world hadn’t ended.
“Alright,” I said. “But I’m navigating. You still argue with Google Maps.”
He laughed, and the sound sent a tremor through me. Maybe some ghosts weren’t meant to stay buried.
The taxi wound through evening streets. I kept my word, directing the driver while Oliver sat beside me, our hands inches apart on the seat.
“Turn right here,” I said, and he smiled—I still knew the way to his parents’ house better than he did.
“Remember our first visit?” he asked suddenly. “You changed outfits three times.”
“I wanted to impress!” I huffed. “Then spilled tea all over myself.”
We laughed, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed. But the taxi stopped outside the familiar terrace, and the spell broke.
Margaret greeted us at the door, beaming. “You came together? What a surprise!”
“Ran into each other at the airport,” I said quickly, catching the hope in her eyes.
“Come in, come in! Emily, I’ve made up your old room—”
I froze. *My* room—the one Oliver and I had always shared, with the view of the apple tree from the window.
“Mum, maybe I’ll take the sofa—” Oliver started.
“Don’t be silly! Guests tomorrow’ll need the sitting room. You’re in your childhood room, Em in yours. Just like always.”
*Just like always.* The words echoed. Nothing was “just like always,” but arguing with Margaret was futile.
The evening blurred with preparations. I helped serve canapés at the party, Oliver fetched drinks. We carefully avoided being alone—until nightfall, when we found ourselves on the back porch, wine glasses in hand.
“I panicked,” he admitted suddenly, staring into the dark. “When you talked about kids, a house… I hid in work.”
“And I didn’t understand fear,” I murmured. “Just pushed harder.”
A petal fluttered from the apple tree between us.
“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” I confessed. “She said we ruin things not because we stop loving, but because we never learned to love ourselves.”
Oliver exhaled. “Sounds about right.” He turned his glass. “Maybe… we try talking? No pressure. Just… see what happens.”
I met his gaze—unsure, hopeful.
“One step at a time,” I agreed.
Inside, Margaret called us for tea. We shared a smile, conspirators again. Ahead lay a night of conversation—and perhaps the start of something. Or the return of something. Only time would tell.
