Regret

He had a good life.

Nathan Reed was thirty-five, married, and comfortably successful. A quiet house with soft wood floors, a job he didn’t hate, and a wife who made pancakes on Sundays. He had a dog named Oscar that greeted him like a small hurricane every time he walked through the door.

Some people would kill for that kind of peace.

But Nathan couldn't stop thinking about the things he didn’t do.

He'd lie awake at night replaying moments—forks in the road, split-second decisions, missed chances that never stopped echoing.

He should’ve asked Claire to prom back in high school. Should’ve taken that art class in college. Should’ve told his dad he forgave him before the cancer got too bad. Should’ve said yes to that trip with his friends before they all drifted apart. Stupid stuff. Huge stuff. All of it.

One night, sitting in the attic surrounded by dusty boxes and old regrets, Nathan whispered, “If I could just go back…”

And something answered.

There wasn’t a flash of light or a voice from the sky. Just a shiver. A flicker. And suddenly, he was seventeen again, standing in the high school hallway outside the gym, wearing that old hoodie he hadn’t seen in years.

Claire was standing by the lockers.

And this time, he asked her to prom.

She said yes.

They danced. They kissed under string lights. It was perfect.

And then—snap—he was back in the present.

But the house felt… wrong.

The floors were different. The light colder. Oscar didn’t come running.

His wife, Rachel, wasn’t there.

In her place, a note on the kitchen counter: “Don’t wait up tonight.”

The handwriting was familiar, but not Rachel’s.

Her name was Ava now. Someone he vaguely remembered from college.

Nathan stared at the note for a long time.

Then he went back to the attic.

And did it again.

He went back to college and took that art class. He stayed up late painting things that made him feel more alive than he had in years. He changed majors. Talked to different people. Laughed louder.

When he returned to the present, his job was gone.

He worked part-time at a small studio now, alone most of the day. No one said hi when he came in. No one said goodbye when he left.

But he told himself it was worth it. Because now he was being true to himself.

Still, the silence of his new life started to press in. So he went back again. And again.

He told his dad he loved him.

He patched things up with an old friend.

He moved to the city that used to scare him.

And each time, when he came back, something else was missing.

Rachel never returned. Neither did Oscar. His cozy home became a cramped apartment. His phone stopped buzzing. His friends faded. His mother didn’t answer his calls.

His past was perfect now.

His present was hollow.

Eventually, Nathan stopped coming out of the attic. He barely noticed as the seasons changed. The boxes gathered more dust. He lost track of which memory he was trying to fix, and why.

He was just chasing echoes. Chasing feelings. Chasing versions of himself that never lasted.

One morning, Nathan looked in the mirror and barely recognized the man staring back.

His face was tired. His eyes empty. He had fixed everything. He had no regrets left.

And no one left either.

The attic was still. Quiet.

There was one box he hadn't touched yet—old photos of Rachel, Oscar, and a thousand moments he’d never get back.

His hands trembled as he opened it.

Inside, a note in his own handwriting:

“You had everything. You just didn’t know how to keep it.”

Nathan sat there, surrounded by the fragments of two lives—the one he changed, and the one he destroyed.

And for the first time, he wished he couldn’t go back.