The Corridor of Regret

 

Ethan sat on his couch, the weight of a long day pressing on his shoulders. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a slice of the dying evening sun. A soft chime from his phone broke the silence. It was a message from his friend, Marcus.

"Check your phone. Now."

Brows furrowed, Ethan glanced at the screen again. Odd. He was already looking at his phone. Just then, the screen flickered—like a glitch—and a single line appeared: Are you okay?

A chill pricked his spine. Out of reflex, he muttered, "Yeah, I’m fine," though no one was there to hear.

But he wasn’t fine.

He stared at the message, his thoughts stirring. His thumb moved almost on its own, opening his social media. As the feed loaded, his heart began to beat a little faster. A photo filled the screen—white dress, soft veil, smiling eyes. It was Claire.

Claire.

She was getting married.

Someone had tagged her in the post. She looked radiant, exactly as he remembered, only now... she belonged to someone else.

The world dulled. The ambient hum of the city faded away. And suddenly, his small apartment didn’t feel so empty. He saw her in the kitchen, tossing a dish towel at him for sneaking a bite. He saw her curled up on the couch, shivering with a fever but still making fun of his choice in movies. He saw her barefoot, laughing as she ran from the bathroom after soaking him in a shampoo prank.

He saw it all. Like an old film reel running unchecked, flickering across the walls, across his mind.

Then came the corridor. The long hallway that led to the elevator. The final scene.

But first, the unraveling.

A year ago, Ethan had been let go. Eight years into his job, loyal to a fault, and just like that—gone. He didn’t mope. He worked. Odd jobs, day shifts, night shifts. Anything to keep the lights on, to hold on to some dignity. But time was the price. Less time for Claire. Less energy. Less presence.

One day, during a part-time shift at a department store, he saw her. She was speaking to someone—a tall, well-dressed man, the kind who reeked of inherited charm and effortless money. The man leaned in, too familiar.

Ethan’s blood boiled. He clenched his fists. He wanted to storm over, declare to the world that Claire was his. But his supervisor’s voice cut in.

"Man, she’s lucky. That guy looks loaded. Unlike you."

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

"Where do you think you’re going? Gonna lose another job, hero?"

The words stung. Not just because they were cruel. Because they echoed his own insecurities. At an age where others built careers, he was juggling shifts.

By the time he rushed out, Claire was stepping into the rich man’s luxury car. The man whispered something, and she hesitated—just a second—before getting in.

Ethan stood frozen. His thoughts screamed: She wouldn’t. She’s not like that.

But doubt is a cruel, whispering thing.

He walked back inside. The supervisor smirked. "Didn’t think you'd actually run off. Acting big when you’re nothing. She’s not staying for a broke guy like you."

Ethan snapped. The punch was swift, fueled by shame and rage. He stormed out, jobless once again.

He ran home, hoping—no, praying—she was there. But the apartment was empty. He left to the nearest bar, to drown himself with cheap alcohol.

He drank. Just enough to numb. Just enough to spiral.

When he returned home, unsteady on his feet, she was there.

Claire.

Worried. Waiting. She rushed to his side. Tried to steady him. Help him.

He lashed out.

"Why are you still here? Found someone better, haven’t you? Tall, rich, clean hands. You think I’m a loser, don’t you?"

She tried to calm him. "Ethan, no. You’ve got it wrong. That wasn’t—"

"Don’t lie! You sat in his car! I saw it!"

Her voice cracked. "It wasn’t what you think. I need to go somewhere urgently and it was hard to get a ride... he was simply offering me. I wasn’t supposed to say anything... I thought—"

He didn’t listen. He saw betrayal in her eyes where there was only confusion. He saw judgment where there was concern.

"Get out. Just go."

She stood still, tears welling in her eyes. Then, slowly, she turned and walked to the door. That long corridor stretched before her. Ethan watched her walk away, every step a chance for redemption.

But he did nothing.

He let her go.

He never saw her again.

Not until today.

In the wedding dress. With someone else.

Weeks turned into months. The weight of her absence gnawed at him. But the truth? It came quietly.

He had run into Claire’s friend at the pharmacy. Small talk turned into awkward silence. Then, a moment of reluctant honesty.

“She helped my mom that day,” Ethan murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

The friend hesitated, then nodded. “She didn’t want you to know. Your mom didn’t want to trouble you. She had to go to the hospital urgently. Claire was the only one she trusted who had time.”

And just like that, the pieces fell into place.

The urgency. The hesitation. The silence.

His mother, trying not to burden him. Claire, caught in the middle. Protecting the people she loved.

And he had thrown it all away.

The truth didn’t free him. It shackled him.

Too much time had passed. The wound had turned into a scar. One that couldn’t be mended.

Ethan stood up now, the weight in his chest unbearable. He walked to his front door, opened it, and stared down that same corridor—quiet, long, cold.

He imagined her again. Walking, crying. Stopping. Hoping he’d say something. Anything.

What if he had?

What if he’d run?

Run past his doubts. Past his pride. Run down the stairs, two steps at a time. Wait at the ground floor. And when the elevator opened, he’d be there. Breathless. Desperate. But sure.

"Claire, I was wrong. I’m scared. I’m lost. But I love you. Please, don’t go."

Would that man in the wedding photo be him?

Ethan blinked. The corridor was empty. Silent.

He whispered to no one, "I’m sorry."

Sometimes, it’s not the mistakes that ruin us. It’s refusing to own them. Letting them rot in the dark.

If he’d just had the courage.

But he didn’t.

Now, the only thing that walked the corridor... was regret.

"When we're at our weakest, others' words can get to us. Mistakes happen. But if we don’t own up to them, they turn into something worse—regret. If you know you’ve done wrong, don’t wait. Be brave. Say it. Running never fixes anything."