I was disillusioned with my chosen partner and ended things right after visiting her home.
I had been married for thirteen years, and my ex-wife was never considered a classic beauty. In our youth, she won me over with her delicate nature, tenderness, and a subtle gentleness that touched my soul. I wouldn’t say she was stunning, but she always knew how to present herself well. Elegant lace lingerie that she treated herself to, shelves in our bathroom filled with creams, perfumes, oils, and cosmetics—all this was her world. There were so many bottles and jars that I got lost among them, but she always smelled like a floral garden. We both earned a good living and had a comfortable life, allowing her to indulge in such little luxuries.
My ex never allowed herself to wander around the house in baggy old clothes—her hair was always styled, and her clothes pressed. I admired women like that, well-groomed and confident in their worth. But fate had other plans—five years ago we divorced, and since then my life has been a series of fleeting encounters. Women came and went without leaving a mark, until I met her—Alice. She seemed to be from another world: beautiful and captivating, with delicate features and a confident stride. She managed a team of men at work with such ease that I was involuntarily impressed. I decided she was not one to be missed.
It all started with innocent conversations, but soon I invited her over to my flat in London. I didn’t cook—instead, I ordered dinner from a restaurant, yet set the table myself, putting my heart into it. The evening was magical: wine, laughter, long glances. Alice stayed the night, and from then on became a frequent guest. But the more often she visited, the more her behavior unsettled me. She never brought with her a makeup bag, change of clothes, or lingerie. In the morning, I saw her in a terrible state: smudged mascara, tangled hair, and a tired face. After a shower, she’d put on the same clothes she wore yesterday, and it grated on me. Honestly, I was disappointed to my core.
One day, Alice invited me to her place. I went there thinking I’d walk into chaos—her habits at my place suggested she was untidy. But when I crossed the threshold of her flat, I was in for a shock. It wasn’t disarray but something else. The place had a fresh makeover—stylish, expensive, with quality furniture and trendy details. Everything screamed taste and affluence. But when I went into the bathroom to wash my hands, my heart sank. There stood only a lonely bottle of shampoo and a tube of toothpaste. That was it. No hint of luxury, no sign of self-care. I remembered my ex-wife—her shelves were brimming with bottles, and her bathroom was filled with aromas, which to me was the hallmark of femininity and self-respect. But here, there was emptiness.
Alice had recently turned 33, but apparently hadn’t thought about preserving her youth. Was she not worried about wrinkles or aging skin? I stood there, staring at the scant shelf, feeling the disappointment building inside. But the real blow awaited on the balcony. There, on the line, hung her washed clothes—grey, simple, with no hint of grace. She noticed my glance and casually said, “For me, comfort is key.” Those words sounded like a verdict.
Perhaps at 42, I’ve become too picky? Perhaps my habits and expectations are burdens from the past that I can’t shake off? But I realized: I couldn’t live with such a woman. We parted ways—I ended it myself. I walked away without looking back, with a heavy heart but knowing I couldn’t accept that emptiness where I expected to see beauty and care. Alice was stunning on the outside, but inside her home, I saw only indifference to herself—and that destroyed everything that could have been between us.
