I consider it both a fortune and a misfortune that I only have one ex-partner. I’m fortunate because my first experience with love was epic, spanning across a decade from when I first met him at sixteen, to now, a woman in her late twenties. But I’m not so fortunate because truth be told, I always wanted my first love to be my last. Is there anything more epic than that?

This one is difficult to write. Not because it’s painful or anything – I’m thankfully through the worst of it – but because I often feel like I’m living two versions of myself. In the first version, I am a girl who enjoys being single. There is a certain freedom that comes with it, and I am discovering so much about myself (for example, I LOVE travelling, and going solo is nowhere near as scary as I thought), through being alone. I have grown, I have changed, I have found confidence and laughter, and I stand today as a woman I am proud to be. This version sees hope in her future. She sees herself falling in love and having it be epic the second time around, too. But the other version would take her first love back in a heartbeat. The other version still sees herself with him and only him. It’s like I’m hurtling down two parallel paths, hopping from one to the other, and at the time of writing, I don’t know which will be the one that sticks. Probably the one that happens first. And isn’t it so lovely to think that right now, the person I will grow to love exists somewhere, waiting unknowingly for me to come along?

I wrote the below piece for an assignment in my last year at uni. It was a life writing module, and at the time, I had just been broken up with. There wasn’t anything more personal that I could think to write about. There wasn’t anything else I wanted to, or even could, write about. It consumed me, and it felt a necessity to get it out. To record how much I loved this person. To capture my thoughts and feelings as they happened. Because my love for him really was epic.

Danny

“You know the greatest loves of all time are over now” – Taylor Swift

He’s always been good to you, and you’ve always been good to him. Nothing went wrong. So how do you explain it? Not just to anyone, but to yourself? When you’re lying in bed at night, alone, and you ask yourself how it happened, when it happened, what do you say? Was it a single moment—one you’ll probably never pinpoint? Or was it a slow unravelling, seconds rolling into years, that led you here?

How do two people break up after almost a decade of being together? No one has ever taught you that. Even if they could, you wouldn’t have asked for it. It isn’t something you thought you’d ever need to know. It isn’t something you’ve ever wanted to know.

You think of the time when you first met him. You remember it clearly because, ever since that day, he’s made a home inside your head. He was there, and you were there. You: coming home after staying the night at your friends. Him: lying on your living-room sofa with his ruffled hair and a quilt thrown over him, looking like he’d just woken up. You knew someone was staying over, but as you entered the room, no warning could have prepared you for what you felt when you first saw him. That smile. The biggest dimples you’d ever seen. Your eyes did a double take before glueing to him. Even now, you can almost see that invisible string linking the two of you together before you even knew his name. You haven’t been introduced to Mr Rochester yet, but when he comes into your life a year later, this moment will make you understand what he means about the cord of communion tying him to Jane. This is my friend, your brother said. His name is one letter away from being identical to your favourite actors. You move to the kitchen, his face still in your mind. Your mum is at the table, and when she starts telling you a story, you don’t listen. You’re wondering how such a person exists in this world and how you’re only now getting to meet him.

What will your brother say when he hears you’ve broken up? That’s what you’re asking each other now. He thinks he’ll sit the two of you down. After all, your brother believes he can solve any problem through talking. You think he’ll try that, too, but you know there isn’t anything for him to solve. This isn’t a problem, is it? It also doesn’t feel like a solution.

You don’t want to. You don’t want to. You don’t want to.

Your brother never wanted the two of you to be together. For so long, he resisted. For so long, you stayed apart. You tried not to think about him. You tried to think of anyone else. But there it was, that invisible string still clinging to him, never breaking, always pulling. Even when he moved to Coventry. Even when you moved to Spain. Mr Rochester was wrong about one thing: the cord doesn’t snap when miles come between you. The bleeding, though, you felt that. You sent him a message before you got on the plane. He knew how you felt already, but you needed to say it. It was your closure. Yet when you got off the plane, you thought of him. Your thoughts were always of him. The messages didn’t stop, and soon, your dreams, your wishes, your desires—they threaded themselves to that invisible string with the strength of titanium, leading you back to him. And, miraculously, he met you halfway.

If he’s not your future, what is?

Now you’re standing at the edge of a road that splits all ways. You don’t know where any of these new roads lead. You’re scared to find out. The one you took to get here is your favourite, and you want to continue along it, to walk, sprint, crawl your way to the future you always thought you’d have. But life doesn’t always work out how you plan, and it doesn’t need to be scary. You know this, and for a second, another road seems to shimmer. You see yourself walking along it as a new you, a different you, a you that manages to be happy. But when you take a step towards it, it’s a step too far. The road behind you shakes, starts to disappear, and you step back, race back, wanting to stay on it forever. Fine, you’ll stay here alone if you have to.

No one will ever be him.

Do you remember when you couldn’t stop thinking about him, even when he was in the room? You’d reminisce about your favourite times—your first kiss, the way he sometimes looks at you, all those drunken nights when you couldn’t stay apart—and then you’d look to the opposite sofa, and he’d be there, reading an article on his phone, and you’d smile, thinking if the world ended right this second, you were exactly where you wanted to be. Why are you smiling? he once asked. Because you’re here.

Now dread enters your chest, and tears pool in your eyes.

You want to be angry. You are angry. But it’s too fleeting to hold onto.

All of your happiest moments have been with him. Your happiest: those times you made him laugh. His laugh. Your favourite sound. You hear his car outside the window and smile because he’s home. Home. Rewind the years, and there you are, grinning at your screen because it’s his name you see. Rewind the years, and there you are again, riddled with nervous excitement because you’re on your first walk, first date, first I Love You. There are things you only know how to do with him. Games you’ve only ever played with him. Like Tension, the game you played most often. You usually wanted to win at games, but when it came to him, you secretly hoped he’d beat you. There are places that are his and yours, not yours alone, but his and yours. Visiting the Lakes was your favourite. You did that countless times. What will these things become now that you’re just you?

Alone. That’s the word that enters your head. You’re going to be alone.

You’ve been alone before, haven’t you? Yes. But it won’t be the same this time. You know that. There was an alone before him, and there will be an alone after him. How will it feel this time? Worse, you think, because for so long, you’ve had him. For so long, he’s been enough. His friends have become your friends. His family have become your family. When you see his brother, he pulls you into a hug and treats you like a sister. When you see his sister, she pours you a drink and calls you family. His auntie planned your wedding for you. You’ll have it in a castle, she said. Because I know you love castles. His mum used to sit you down after a drink with tears in her eyes because she was happy you existed. I’m glad he’s found you, were her words. Alone, you think again.

You’re not alone, he tells you now. You have me. You’ll always have me, and I’ll always have you.

Always is a word you’ve used before. You used to sign his cards with it. Yours, always. Love, always. It’s a sacred word, just like forever. Yours, always and forever.

Now you’re talking about ends and new beginnings, and always feels like a word created to mock you. You’re going to thrive, he tells you. You’re going to be successful and go on adventures and do anything you want. But what’s that without you? you want to ask. What’s anything without you? Your thoughts confuse you because this is what you want, too. This is as much your choice as it is his because you want different things, remember? You: marriage and his future. Him: too uncertain to give you that. For the first time, you wonder what thoughts he’s having. If he really means what he says.

You don’t mean it.

He asks if you can stay friends, and you want to say yes. He is your everything, and you are his everything. Or is that now in the past? Your hands start to shake. It stops you from saying the word you want to say, so you do what you can and shrug your shoulders instead.

You’re thinking about firsts again. So many firsts, how many lasts? Did they happen without you realising? Did they slip away, quiet and unassuming, before you knew to hold on and protect them? Have you made him his last coffee in the morning? Has he given you his last kiss at night? Will you fight over space by the bathroom sink again? Will he call out your name because he’s making tea and, like always, can’t find an ingredient that’s right in front of him? Firsts and lasts, you think. They were always his, but they weren’t meant to end this soon.

It hurts, you know. Having your heart broken. It’s a physical pain like a hole is eroding inside of you. Similar to grief, in a way, that thing you’ve felt before and have feared ever since. It’s loss—and it’s anguish. It’s a pain that runs deeper than bones. You never knew that before.

Why does it have to hurt?

There was once a time when your heart felt so full you thought it could burst. There: curled in your bed above the pub. Him: wrapped in your arms after weeks away. You: thinking if the world was ending outside, you wouldn’t notice. You moved to him. Of course, you did. You would have gone to the ends of the earth to be with him. At first, you shared a house with his work friends. Then you moved to a flat of your own. Then you bought a house. Then you bought another, this time back home, close to your families. This one you’ll have forever; that’s what you said to each other. This is ours forever.

Now he’s figuring out how the bills and stuff will work, the house, the everything, and you’re asking yourself if this is really happening, if this is really real. What’s yours is his, and what’s his is yours. Right? Not anymore. You’re talking about what items you’ll take; he asks you to leave your books because they remind him of you. You say yes, but only the bad ones. You’ll need the good ones for comfort at night. You look around. This sofa you’re on, it isn’t yours anymore. That owl clock you bought together in Keswick; that isn’t yours anymore, either. They belong to this house, and you don’t.

It hurts, you’re thinking. Oh God, this hurts.

It’s not the end of the world, he says. You laugh. You cry. You shake your head and say: you’re saying that to someone who love means everything to.

We’re still young, he’s saying now. This isn’t the end of anything. It’s the end of us, you think, but you don’t say it. You understand what he means. You’re glad he’s thinking it, that his outlook is positive. Except you want it to hurt. You want his eyes to cry, his chest to bleed, and his heart to break. But that moment passes; you’re back to yourself. You love this man. You’ll always want him to win.

Smooth. That’s the word you keep hearing. The word you keep saying to each other. This break-up will be smooth. If you need him, he’ll be there. If he needs you, you’ll come running. You still care. You still love. This break-up will be smooth.

These past eight years have been epic.

He’s annoyed you at times. He’s annoyed you so many times. You try to remember those times. You hope they’ll make this easier. You think of him chasing you up the stairs. You think of him scaring you, making you jump, using that voice he knows gets under your skin. You think of him ragging the quilt back at night because he always saves his energy for the moment you’re trying to sleep. You think about how he’s the lightest lightweight you’ve ever met. But now you’d take it. You’d take it all to keep him. Every side of his, you want it. Good, there’s so much good in him. And bad, there’s not much of that. He thinks there is. You don’t know how to tell him he’s the best person you’ve ever met, but you want him to know it. You want him to believe it. You’re really courageous, you tell him. What you’re doing, although it hurts, it’s really courageous.

Because eight years is a long time to let go. You’d hold on forever.

You said you’d leave, but now you don’t want to go. You said you’re fine, but now you feel like you’re breaking. You said you’ll come to visit, and now you’re planning when it can happen. You said you’ll stay friends; he’ll always be your best friend.

Eight years. Why did you say that was long? It feels like nothing at all. Now you feel you’ve been robbed because you want eight, eighteen, at least eighty more.

He’s hurting, too. He’s crying now. He doesn’t want to do this, not really. He has to do this. You’re stroking his hand. You’ve become the comforter for a second. Only a second. A second is all you can give.

You think:

Is it still happening?

Can you tell me when it’s over?

Can somebody save me, please?

And after it all, you’d do it again. You’d break your heart a million times for those moments with him. They’re worth it, and so is he. He: who made you laugh until your stomach hurt. He: who made you smile every single day.

I’d have all your days, you think. I’d have them all.

Now you’re laughing. You’re laughing and joking with one another because you both still have your sense of humour. You say you’ll need new bedding. He asks what kind you’ll get. You answer single, single everything, like you now are. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is. And it eases the pain a little, this laughter, just like it’s done many times before. God, you love this man. But it’s the pure kind. The kind that promises you’ll protect him forever. No one will ever bad-mouth him when you’re around. If he needs you, you’ll be there. No matter the time, place, or continent. Can you still be friends? Yes, you answer because you’re not leaving that question with a shrug. In you, he has an eternal friend. And you have that, too. In him.

The invisible string, remember?

It will never break.

You have tears in your eyes as you’re typing. He sees them. He tells you that you’ll get through it, that we’ll get through it, because you’re still a ‘we’ at this moment.

You can do it. You know you can because you know you’re strong. But now you’re wondering if part of your strength comes from him. Comes from being with him. The two of you, together. And once you’re not ‘together’ anymore, a little piece of that strength will be forfeited. A token of two people who once were but aren’t anymore. What happens then? What happens next? You still don’t know.

 

I do, of course, know what happens next, being on the other side of it. What happens next is months and months of pain, months and months of struggle. But I felt every ounce of it. I didn’t shy away from it or distract myself with things I knew were temporary. I grieved because I knew that our love deserved it. I faced it head on. And then I poured my energy into things that made me happy. I fought. I realised that no one person should be the source of all your happiness – that isn’t fair on them, and it isn’t fair on you. I realised that although life now looked different to how I once saw it, I could still be happy. I visited new places, met new people, I laughed, cried, rejoiced, grew, changed, forgave, understood, reminisced, worked, discovered. And I learnt what kind of person I am. Since the break-up, I never once wanted to hurt or abandon him. Bitterness, resentment, jealousy, anger, rejection – these are all things that I’ve felt since our split, but I haven’t acted on them. I’m immensely proud of that. That I can love someone that much. But he was never my possession, and whatever path he chooses to follow without me, that’s his choice. I don’t need to be his girlfriend to support him. Besides, the end of a romantic relationship doesn’t mean The End. He was the happiest years of my life. I will be on his side until the actual end. Quietly, loudly – it doesn’t matter to me. And the beautiful thing is that I know he is on my side, too.