Irina, 26, received a lockdown apology email from her first boyfriend.

It was another Friday evening in lockdown, of staring at a computer screen, toggling between news sites and social media, when the email from James arrived.

Irina waited a beat, trying to recall the last time she had thought of her first boyfriend, before clicking it open.

"Irina, I know this is out of the blue and years too late," it began, "but this is a message I need to send."

She had been 16 and ready for a boyfriend when she met James. It seemed like a normal step a girl her age should take.

So much of her life hadn't been typical.

Born in Moscow, Irina had come to the UK on a two-week student exchange and liked the education system here. At the age of 14 she told her parents she wanted to leave Russia and go to a British boarding school.

After initial hesitation, they gave in. Irina's mother had been a railway conductor from a rural part of Russia when she fell in love with Irina's father, a passenger on her train. She was 19, he was 30. Weeks later she packed her bags and knocked on his door, 1,000 miles away, informing him that they should now live together. How could they deny their daughter her own big adventure?

Arriving in England, Irina felt the culture shock immediately. Growing up in Moscow, Irina's inner-city school had been, in her words, "hardcore". There were fights in the toilets and open bullying. Here, she was amused by mandatory chapel visits and the invisible social hierarchies of an English school.

Irina found her way into the ecosystem and made friends. Over time, and after a giggly afternoon in a park, one boy in particular caught her eye.

James fitted the brief for a cool boyfriend. He was cute. He was funny. At 17, he was a year older than Irina. He was tall, too.

They texted over the next few weeks, and soon their relationship became official, though the cracks appeared right away.

"When you're that age, status amongst friends is very important," Irina says. "And it was very important for James to appear cool."

In public there were jokes at Irina's expense among their mutual friends. In private, James was frustrated if she appeared to be better than him at some things.

"If I was better than him at crosswords he would be insulted and say, 'But you're Russian, your English shouldn't be as good as mine,'" Irina says. "And I would reassure him by saying, 'It's not, I'm just good at crosswords.'"

Eventually, two years later, Irina was told by mutual friends that James had confessed he'd cheated on her.

Irina ended the relationship abruptly, distancing herself as best she could, telling him she didn't want contact.

She moved to a different city for university and a fresh start.

James texted sporadically over the next couple of years - always on her birthday, and to wish her happy new year. Eventually, after one exchange, Irina suggested to James that for them to successfully move on it would be better if they cut contact altogether.

James' response was swift and icy. He wasn't trying to get back together with Irina, he wrote. Then he told her to never message him again.

Irina stared at the message and responded, Lol.

That, she decided, would be the end of this chapter of her life.

Years passed and Irina moved again, settling into a tech job. Now at ease making friends, she found her rhythm in a new city.

When coronavirus hit, Irina's work sent her a keyboard and a large monitor so she could work from home.

And then the email from James arrived.

In the 800-word-message, James explained that lockdown had forced him to assess his own past behaviour, and he felt he owed her an apology for his immaturity all those years ago.

He apologised about how he had behaved, saying that he felt mortified when he read the texts he had sent her.

And then he made a stunning confession. He had never actually cheated on Irina - that too had been a lie to impress their friends.

He went on to write that he had been volunteering to help vulnerable communities during lockdown and now was a time for true reflection and for people to be kinder to one another.

Transported back in time, with a mix of emotions she hadn't felt in years, Irina went for a walk to clear her head.

When she got back, she decided to reply. She told him to be kind to himself and said that everyone has made mistakes, especially when they are young. And then she addressed his apology.

I don't have a reaction to your apology. Perhaps I have forgiven you, perhaps I stopped caring. I hope it brings you closure to know I feel no ill feelings towards you.

She thought for a moment, wondering if this was a fair response.

"I think he was looking for redemption from me," Irina says. "But it's not really for me to give it to him. He's the only one who can give it to himself - forgive himself."

Irina sent the email and went back to her computer, her evening and her life.

Why we apologise

Nastaran Tavakoli-Far is the co-host of The Gender Knot, a podcast that explores cultural issues. She's hosted "loads and loads and loads" of shows on the psychology of an apology and what motivates someone to make one.

Lockdown, she says, adds another dimension.

"There's the obvious reason why we are reflecting on our behaviour, we've all got a lot of time to think. A lot of the things we do to avoid reflection aren't possible right now, like travelling, socialising, commuting.

"At the same time it's an opportunity to become thoughtful about your relationships and ask all these big fundamental questions of the purpose in your life and what your legacy is."

But apologies need to be thought through, she says.

"You should never give an apology to feel better. Making an apology is only the first step to making amends. You need to be ready for the person to respond in any way they need, and not at all if they want.

"While you have time to think about the bad things in the past, so does the person receiving the apology, and you may trigger an emotion in them that they don't necessarily want right now."