It was 9:30 PM when Jowad returned to his small apartment on the third floor of an old, forgotten building. The kind of place where silence lived in the walls, louder than any neighbor could be.
The rain had just begun to fall—late, hesitant. As if even the sky had been holding something in too long and had finally let go.
He opened the door slowly, didn't bother turning on the light. He tossed his keys onto the small table by the heater and sat on the floor with his back against the wall, staring into nothing.
That night, there was only one sound to keep him company: the soft tap of raindrops against the window. And only one thought in his mind:
"If only I had told her… if only I said it."
But he didn't.
He never told Ruba he loved her. Not that day at the old café, when she stood before him, eyes wide with hope and confusion, asking him:
— "Jowad… what am I to you? Just a friend? A sister? What?"
He laughed that day. A dry, empty laugh, and replied:
— "You? You're just a kind person… someone I don't want to lose."
She had waited for one word—just one honest word. She wasn't asking for anything more than the truth, even if it came wrapped in fear.
But Jowad… he was a coward.
He never understood why he was afraid. Maybe it was commitment. Maybe rejection. Or maybe… he was just scared of happiness.
The next day, Ruba disappeared.
No calls. No messages. Not even a green dot next to her name.
Weeks passed before he heard the news—she had left. London. With someone else.
His name was Mohannad.
Successful. Charming. Direct. The kind of man who didn't hesitate. The kind of man who saw Ruba and said, "I love you. I want to be with you."
And when her heart got tired of waiting, she went with him.
Sometimes, love doesn't go to the one who loves more…
It goes to the one who says it first.
Two years passed.
Jowad built a new life—an architecture firm, a nice car, a better apartment. Everything looked perfect. But it all tasted like unsweetened coffee. He drank it every day but never liked it.
Then one day, while flipping through blueprints, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:
"If you still remember me, meet me where it all began. The old café. 6 PM."
His heart paused.
Then raced.
Was life giving him a second chance?
Or was it pulling him into the fire of real regret?
At exactly 6:00 PM, Jowad stepped into the café.
Nothing had changed. Same tables, same soft lighting, same faded music.
She wasn't there yet.
He sat down.
Five minutes later, she walked in.
Ruba.
More mature. Calmer. But in her eyes—something broken, something that never healed.
She sat across from him without a greeting, without a smile, and simply said:
— "I don't know why I came back. I just wanted to tell you something."
He nodded, quietly.
She continued:
— "I'm not happy."
Silence.
— "And I wish time could go back… not because you were kinder, but because you were more honest—even in your silence."
He gave a small, painful smile and said:
— "If time really did go back… I'd scream it in your face. I love you."
She asked:
— "Why didn't you say it then?"
He replied:
— "I thought you'd stay… even if I didn't."
She went quiet.
So did he.
And everything around them—the café, the music, the evening—held its breath.
Then, she stood up.
— "I didn't bring you here to start over… I brought you here so you'd know what real regret looks like. Because sometimes, true regret isn't about what you lost…
It's about the chance you never took."
She walked out.
And left him sitting there, alone with a cold cup of coffee
and a heart colder still.
That's when a new chapter of his life began.
One called:
"Regret After Regret."