**Diary Entry, 12th November**
Life, as it happens, has a cruel sense of humour—it throws curveballs no scriptwriter would dare dream up. I never believed in the saying “first love never dies” until the past came knocking at my door… and I let it in.
My name is Emily, born and raised in Manchester. My story isn’t some glossy magazine romance. It’s just life—sometimes bitter, sometimes oddly fair. And yes, I went back to the man who betrayed me. He left me for someone else. And I… forgave. Or lost my mind? You tell me.
**First Love: Bright as a Summer’s Day**
It all started at school. Oliver and I were *the* couple of our year. Tall, fair-haired, captain of the rugby team—every girl fancied him, but I was the lucky one. I can still remember the envy in my friends’ eyes, the lads whispering behind my back.
We didn’t split after graduation. He skipped national service—thanks to his sports scholarship—while I studied literature at uni. Two years later, he enrolled too. We married young, thinking we knew everything about love and life.
Three years later, we divorced.
**Broken Promises and Betrayal**
At first, he was tender, attentive. Then, slowly, he changed. Stopped hiding his affairs. Became cold, indifferent. I lost two babies—both from the stress. I begged, I pleaded, tried to salvage what was crumbling. But in the end, he left. For *her*. One of his flings, yet somehow she convinced him to walk away.
I grieved for years. The worst part? I’d scrubbed the windows of the new flat we were meant to move into together. Instead, *she* moved in. And I was left—empty, used, like a dishrag tossed aside.
**A Second Chance**
Then came Henry. Older, a colleague, quiet and steady. He knew my pain. Listened without pushing. Didn’t demand proof—his love just *was*. We fit like puzzle pieces, no games, no suspicions.
We never had kids—just didn’t happen. But it didn’t matter. He was my rock. After a decade, we married. I thought it would last forever.
**Fate’s Cruel Blow**
Henry died suddenly. His heart. No one knew he was ill. Only after the funeral did I learn from the solicitor—he’d left everything to me. The flat, his father’s estate. He hadn’t wanted children because he’d wanted me free, even if I ended up alone.
I tried to move on. Worked, lived as he’d have wanted. But the house was too quiet.
**The Past Returns**
Nearly ten years passed. Then—*Oliver* called. Divorced. Nearly broke. Asked to meet… not for coffee, but at the solicitor’s office.
Turns out, that flat he’d moved into with *her*? Still half mine. We’d bought it two months before the divorce—I’d never noticed the paperwork. Now he needed my signature to sell.
Oh, how I’d waited for this! My revenge. I could’ve refused. Made him suffer. I *wanted* to.
Then I saw him.
**Starting Over**
He’d aged. Thinner, quieter. None of that old swagger. We had tea after signing. Talked. Laughed. He was different—humbled, softer.
I signed the papers. Then… we kept talking. No grand plan. Just two lonely souls who once knew every inch of each other.
Months later, he asked me to the cottage—*our* old place. Where we’d been happy. And… I said yes.
Now we’re together again. Yes, *that* Oliver. I hear my mates whisper, “She’s mad!” Maybe. But it’s my life. My first love became my last.
Maybe it *was* a mistake. But only to those who’ve never known how hard it is to find happiness—even when it wears the face of your past.
Sometimes the only way forward is to go back.
