Skip to content

Letting Go

28 March, 2012

Two days ago, she tweeted about having a new boyfriend. This had about as much effect on me as if she had tweeted about having a new toaster. Actually, that’s not true, at least I would have wanted to know more about a toaster, maybe meet it, try it out.

This is enormous progress. We met last summer, and it was one of those instant attractions. She was gorgeous, funny, intelligent, artsy, languagesy, single, everything I would have been looking for had I been looking. We chatted easily, we laughed together, we both knew all the words to the Um Bongo advert, things looked great. Within days we were sharing thoughts and secrets we hadn’t shared with anyone else. We both had some emotional baggage, but this was just another similarity, another aspect we had in common, and we could share and offer mutual support. All was decidedly sunny in the garden of the Reclining Gentleman, and I was happier than I had been for years.

About a month in, things cooled from her side, and the words “friends” and “space” were being dropped into conversations. Or more often into texts and FB messages, which was increasingly how we were communicating. Things drifted, she drifted, a chapter closed. I cried, I comfort ate, I shrugged.

Then around Christmas, a text. She was so sorry she had hurt me, I was one of the kindest men who had ever shown an interest in her. Did I want to meet up? I did, and we did. As friends it turned out. I tried so hard just to be friends, and in her defence, she never offered anything more. But in the late night text chats we exchanged so often, she said i was lovely, brilliant, wonderful, kind, aces, special, i “got” her more than anyone else. I thought maybe friends would in time be more again, the space would melt away.

Around February, in yet another textathon, she explicitly said we would never make a good couple. Among the things we had always had in common were a list of negative aspects: Insecurity, depression, a propensity to close out others, a lack of trust in people in general.  None of these in themselves had been an issue for us, indeed we were like a two-person support group, helping and sharing. But two people so similar in these ways were doomed she said, she had been there before, and the chapter, the book, closed definitively shut.

This destroyed me, I was lost, sunk, empty, pointless, rudderless, hopeless. I couldn’t bear not to talk to her, but I couldn’t bear to talk to her. I couldn’t bear to talk to anyone. But first by the minute, then by the hour, then by the day, and with the help and support of The Islanders, the fog imperceptibly lifted. Until yesterday, when I flicked past her tweet, registering it but feeling nothing. I’m still lonely, I’m still depressed, I’m still convinced that the last taxi has left the rank and I am destined to make the rest of the long journey on foot, on my own. But as far as this story is concerned, I’ve let go.

From → Relationships

Leave a Comment

Speak Your Brains!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

The Bipolar Muse

From Bipolar Disorder to Bipolar ORDER


Just another site

The Count Of North Clifton

1 Man and His Bloody Dog

Writing In The Deep

From short stories to poetry to just her opinions on life. Heather writes it all.

The Mum Poet

My head is a suitcase full of unorganised treasures waiting to be formed into narrative.

Jennifer Kennedy

Writer and Teacher


❤️ welcome to my secret blog ❤️

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple

Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is optional.

Neil MacDonald Author

A writer's journey

ART So Provident

Art that provokes

fabricating fiction

Louise Jensen - Writer -


from a Southampton Old Lady

This, that and the other thing

Looking at life through photography and words

Silverstein Potter

and other fictitious ramblings: A blog by J. W. Nicholson


Straight up with a twist– Because life is too short to be subtle!


Looking at Infinity

%d bloggers like this: