I’ve lost my true love for the sake of appearances — and now I’m paying for my foolishness.
They say we are the architects of our own misfortune. And I’m a prime example of that. Everything that has happened to me has been entirely my own doing. Not fate, not bad luck, nor the interference of others. Just my blindness, arrogance, and naive infatuation with superficial looks rather than essence.
My name is Roman. I’m from Manchester. I’m 38 now, and for the past three years I’ve been in a marriage that feels more like a trial than a joy. Yet once I believed I had struck it lucky.
Back when I was 32, I lived on my own, had a good job, two flats inherited from my grandmother, and a small shop that I rented out. My parents had long since moved to a house in the suburbs, leaving me to enjoy the bachelor lifestyle, convinced that I’d soon meet “the one.”
I always dreamed of a glamorous wife: tall, with a model-like figure, shiny hair, and perfect makeup. I thought that such a woman would be my ticket to success and the envy of others.
Meanwhile, my best friend, Nina, was always there for me. Intelligent, kind, and with a gentle sense of humor, she knew how to support me. We often took walks, engaged in deep conversations, and sometimes, after nights out, she’d stay over. I took this for granted, seeing her as just a good friend, not realizing it might mean more to her.
Then one day, while on a skiing trip in the Lake District with some friends, I met her — Lara. Tall, striking, with enhanced lips, long nails, and blonde locks that fell to her waist. She embodied my vision of the “ideal wife.”
Over the week, we spent more time in the hotel than on the slopes, drinking, laughing, flirting. Riding a wave of euphoria and alcohol, I, like a fool, proposed to her right there in the hotel room, with a sleepy voice and a glass of champagne in hand.
Upon learning about my flats, business, and background, Lara simply smiled and agreed. A few days later, she moved in with me.
When I told Nina, she was taken aback. Calmly, without any drama, she said, “Roman, you’ve rushed into this. Women from holidays rarely come for love. Try to get to know her better.”
I got furious, accusing her of jealousy, and didn’t even invite her to the wedding. I thought she was just hurt that I hadn’t chosen her.
Very soon, my fairytale unraveled like a house of cards.
First, Lara forbade me from touching her chest: “I’ve got implants. They can’t be squashed, you know.”
Then I discovered she couldn’t cook at all—she even forgot to turn on the kettle. Salads? No. Dinner? No. Dusting? Never. I ended up doing everything, and my mother brought us food in containers.
Lara treated visits to salons, spas, and shopping as her job, spending my money as if it were a game of Monopoly.
When I broached the subject of children, she responded coldly, “Are you mad? My body is my investment. Not for at least ten years.”
We weren’t having conversations; we were merely existing. Whenever I initiated a topic, she either didn’t understand or pretended to be bored. Her interests were nails, hair removal, and Instagram stories. Mine were left to melancholy.
And I found myself drawn back to Nina, seeking her warmth, conversation, and understanding. She listened, encouraged me, joked, and tried to restore my confidence. I confided in her, poured out my heart, and she was simply there for me.
But one day, she told me she was getting married. To a mutual friend, David.
“I love you, Roman,” she said. “I always have. But I got tired of waiting. With David, even if there’s no fire, I’ll have peace. And believe me, sometimes that’s more important.”
It was then I realized everything. Everything I’d lost. Everything I’d destroyed with my own hands.
I could have been with a woman who would have been a support, a true friend, a wife, a mother to my children. But I chose a doll. A wrapping without substance.
Now I live in a gilded cage, with a woman who is foreign to me. I don’t know how long this farce will last. But one thing I know for sure: I’ve lost Nina forever. And that is my greatest mistake.
If you are reading this and there is someone beside you who understands, supports, and cherishes you — hold that person close. Don’t trade authenticity for appearances. Because one day you might wake up in silk sheets… and feel nothing but emptiness around you.
