Three years after my big break-up and out of nowhere in the Soho night, I found someone that made me want to give up being single. Because that’s how I look at it now – it’s not just about finding someone I want to be with, it’s needing to find someone that I’d give up being with myself for.
Three months of hanging out in London, before I hopped on a plane to the desert. Then three and a bit more months of near constant texting, hours and hours of Skyping, way too much sharing of my most inane thoughts, and a few weeks of planning an awesome adventure followed, and we then met in neither of our new homes to spent a week in each other’s company in the incredible Sri Lanka. I fell head over heels in love with that country, and quite a lot with him too. In a whole seven days, we spent only an hour or two apart, and I desperately held onto every second. Maybe too desperately.
He didn’t, doesn’t and won’t feel the same. I was willing to throw my energy into making a (admittedly, quite ridiculous) long distance thing work. He was not. I initially thought it was because I was being too romantic and he was being too practical. That this was meant to be, that it was just damn logistics getting in our way.
The real kicker came when I realised it was nothing to do with the time difference or the annual leave or the cost of flights or any of the other hundreds of reasons why a really, really long distance relationship is a terrible idea. He didn’t want me. And that’s how it ends.