Im forty-two, married to the woman whos been my best mate since we were fourteen. We met at secondary school in Manchester. There were no fireworks, no flutterings of romancesimply two kids thrown together by fate, sharing a desk on the first day and never really sitting anywhere else after. Ours was a textbook friendship: homework, lunch breaks spent swapping stories, whispered confessions, secrets that only we knew. I heard about all her boyfriends, she heard about my girlfriends. There were never stolen kisses or crossed linesjust best friends, through and through.
As the teenage years passed and adulthood crept in, our paths naturally diverged. At nineteen I headed off to university in London, while she stayed in Manchester. At twenty-one I had my first grown-up relationship, and by twenty-four Id married someone else. My wedding was a proper English affairmy best friend sat with my family, beaming. She had a steady partner of her own back then. But we kept calling each other: letting off steam, sharing our troubles, seeking advice, just being there for one another.
My first marriage lasted nearly six years. On the outside it looked picture-perfect, but inside, it was all frosty silences, endless arguments, and a growing distance. My best friend knew it allthe nights we slept in different rooms, the days conversation dried up, the hollow loneliness I felt despite not being alone. She never bad-mouthed my wife or tried to turn me against hershe simply listened. Meanwhile, shed split up with her long-term partner and spent a good few years on her own, throwing herself into work.
When the divorce finally happened, I was thirty-two. It was long, legalistic, and emotionally draining. I ended up living by myself, trying to start over. During that time, my best mate was the one who stayed closest: helping me scour listings for a new flat, joining me on Saturday trips to IKEA, sitting down with me for tea just so I wouldnt be alone. We still called it friendship, but little things began creeping incomfortable silences, lingering glances, jealousies left unspoken.
When I turned thirty-three, after dinner at my new place, a simple truth hit me: I didnt want her to leave that night. Nothing happenedno kisses, not even a touchbut I hardly slept, realising something Id resisted for ages: she wasnt just my friend anymore. A few days later she told me something similarwith incidents and details: how it bothered her to hear, second-hand, that Id been out with another woman; how she started questioning when her feelings for me had truly changed.
We spent nearly a year dancing around the truth, both dating other people, trying to convince ourselves it wasnt love. But it was no use. We kept returning to each other, comparing everyone else to what wed found together. At thirty-five, we decided to give it a try. At first it was awkwardswapping a comfortable, twenty-year friendship for romance is terrifying. There was fear, and guilt, and the constant worry that if it didnt work out, it would ruin everything.
Two years later, we married. I was thirty-seven, she was thirty-six. It wasnt some massive church weddingmore a careful, heartfelt, grown-up promise. People said, It was obvious, that wed always been right for each other. But it hadnt felt that way to us. For over two decades, wed never even thought to blur that line. Love didnt blindside us in our youthit crept in only after wed both lived, lost, and learned.
Weve been married a fair few years now. I wont claim its perfect, but its steady. We know each other inside out: how we cope under pressure, how we argue, how we go quiet, and how we say sorry. Sometimes I thinkif not for the divorce, I might never have realised what I had right beside me. I didnt marry my best mate out of convenience. I married her because, after everything, shes the one person Ive never had to pretend for.
