I wanted to propose to her… but after eight years, she walked away as if I meant nothing.
Hello. I know you usually hear women’s voices in stories like this, but today it’s a man’s turn. Because I’m one of those who lost not just love, but an entire chapter of my life. My name’s Oliver, I’m twenty-eight, from Sheffield, and I still haven’t recovered from what happened.
Me and Emily were together eight years. A lifetime, really. We met at uni when we were twenty. Moved in together, supported each other through tough times, saved up for holidays, argued over IKEA furniture, buried my gran side by side, laughed at reruns of *Only Fools and Horses*. I thought we had more than love—we had a proper partnership. Solid, grown-up, unbreakable. I was wrong.
A month ago, we decided to “take a break.” Apparently, to see if we could live without each other. At the time, it sounded reasonable. No fights, no grudges—just her saying something had “shifted inside her” and she wasn’t “sure about her feelings anymore.”
I agreed. Idiot. I thought, *A week or two, and we’ll be back to normal*. Day one, I was a wreck. Couldn’t sleep in our bed without her, couldn’t face the kitchen where we shared coffee every morning, couldn’t walk past the Tesco where she bought her favourite Galaxy bar. I knew then—I couldn’t do this without her.
I texted. Called. Sent flowers with a note: *”Sorry if I messed up. Come home. None of this makes sense without you.”* Tried to book a table at our favourite pub—she said no. Kept messaging: *”Morning, how’s your day?”* *”Miss you…”*—got back polite, icy replies. That was it. Every day, I felt her slipping further away.
I asked straight: *”Do you not want this anymore?”* She said, *”I need space.”* Fine. Can’t force love. I backed off. But my heart didn’t. I still hoped. Because I had plans… I was going to propose this summer. Bought the ring. Picked the spot—that bridge in York where we first kissed. Dreamed of kneeling down, asking, *”Will you marry me?”* while she cried happy tears and said yes.
Instead, I got a text. Cold, detached: *”I’m sorry, but this isn’t working. Please don’t message me again.”*
Felt like the floor vanished. Couldn’t breathe. Sat at the kitchen table, staring into my empty mug. Eight years. I knew how she took her tea, the way she hummed in her sleep, the scent of her shampoo. Loved her stupidly, fiercely, completely. And then—just erased. No explanation. No reason.
Don’t know if there’s someone else. Doubt it. We never fought, never hurt each other. We were a team. Thought we were heading the same way. Turns out I was sprinting forward while she’d already turned back.
Now I’m in this flat where everything’s still hers: the chipped *Keep Calm* mug, her dog-eared *Bridget Jones* paperback, a hairpin on the bathroom sink. Trying to move on—failing miserably. Read every breakup article, self-help book, bloke’s sob story online… Nothing helps.
All I want is to understand: *why?* How do you bin eight years just like that? Fall out of love? Stop feeling? Or was I just comfy, like an old jumper—nice until it’s boring?
It hurts. No idea what’s next. Everyone says *”time heals,”* but right now, it’s just sandpaper on raw nerves.
Writing this because I can’t stay quiet. Maybe someone reading gets it. Maybe someone knows how it feels to be left—not after three months, but nearly a decade. If you’re in that pit right now—you’re not alone. We’re here. The ones who loved properly. Who dreamed. Who believed. And who got left anyway.
Name’s Oliver. And I just tried to love someone.
