A Chance Encounter a Decade Later: Justin’s Regret Over Losing Ella

“You’re late again, Justin.”

Ella’s voice echoed from the kitchen, brittle as the November wind that had chased me down the High Street. I shrugged off my coat, rainwater pooling at my feet, and avoided her gaze. The clock on the wall ticked past ten.

“I told you, love. Work’s been mental.”

She didn’t reply, just scraped her fork across her plate, pushing peas into a neat line. The smell of cold shepherd’s pie lingered in the air. I hadn’t eaten at home in weeks.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, desperate for the sanctuary of our bedroom. But even there, her presence lingered—her perfume on the pillow, her slippers by the bed. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the rain tapping against the window. My phone buzzed once. I ignored it.

The truth was, I’d been lying to Ella for months. Not just about work, but about everything. There was someone else—Sophie from accounts, with her easy laugh and the way she made me feel like I was twenty again. It started as drinks after work, then texts at midnight, then stolen afternoons in cheap hotels near King’s Cross. I told myself it was nothing serious. Just a bit of excitement to break up the monotony of marriage.

But Ella knew. Of course she did. She’d always been able to read me like a book.

One night, as I slipped into bed beside her, she whispered, “Are you happy, Justin?”

I pretended to be asleep.

The weeks blurred together—late nights, cold dinners, silent breakfasts. Then one Friday, I came home to find her suitcase by the door. She stood in the hallway, coat buttoned up to her chin, eyes red but dry.

“I’m going to Mum’s for a bit,” she said quietly. “I need some space.”

I wanted to beg her to stay, to promise I’d change. But pride—or maybe fear—kept me silent. She left without looking back.

After that, everything unravelled. Sophie grew tired of waiting for me to leave Ella and found someone else. The flat felt emptier than ever. I tried calling Ella, but she never answered. Her mother told me she was better off without me.

Years passed. I threw myself into work, moved to a smaller flat in Clapham, stopped seeing friends who reminded me of what I’d lost. My parents asked after Ella every Christmas; I lied and said she was fine.

Then, ten years later, on a grey Saturday afternoon in March, I saw her again.

I was queuing for coffee at Borough Market when I heard her laugh—a sound so familiar it made my chest ache. She stood by the bakery stall with a little boy tugging at her hand and a man beside her, tall and kind-eyed.

For a moment, I just watched them—Ella smiling as she wiped jam from the boy’s chin, the man leaning in to kiss her cheek. They looked happy in a way we never were.

I almost turned away, but she spotted me. Our eyes met across the crowd.

“Justin?” she called softly.

I walked over on legs that felt like lead.

“Ella… You look well.”

She smiled politely. “This is my husband, Mark. And this is Oliver.”

The boy grinned up at me with Ella’s eyes.

Mark shook my hand warmly. “Justin—Ella’s told me about you.”

I wondered what she’d said. That I was her ex-husband? The one who broke her heart?

We chatted awkwardly about nothing—the weather, London traffic, how busy the market was these days. Ella asked about my parents; I lied and said they were well.

When Mark took Oliver to look at the cheese stall, Ella turned to me.

“I hope you’re happy now,” she said quietly.

I swallowed hard. “Are you?”

She nodded. “I am.”

There was so much I wanted to say—how sorry I was, how much I missed her—but it all stuck in my throat.

“I never meant to hurt you,” I managed finally.

She looked at me with a kind of gentle sadness. “I know.”

We stood in silence as rain began to fall again outside the market hall.

“I should go,” she said at last. “Take care of yourself, Justin.”

She walked away without looking back.

That night, alone in my flat with only the hum of the fridge for company, I replayed our conversation over and over. The years we’d wasted; the things left unsaid; the family we never had.

Sometimes I wonder if we ever really know what we want until it’s gone. Or if forgiveness is possible when regret is all you have left.

Would you have done anything differently? Or is it true that some mistakes can never be undone?