I Miss Him. I’ve Never Missed Anyone Like This Before, and I Don’t Know Why—Especially Since I Didn’t Always Feel Good with Him and There Were Things I Didn’t Like We Met on Facebook, Started Chatting, and One Day He Invited Me for Coffee. We Went to a Park. That Day, I Was Emotionally Down—Disheartened, and Physically Sore from Pushing Myself at the Gym; My Legs Hurt Awfully. We Talked in the Park—It Was Evening, the Sky Was Clear, and It Was Bitterly Cold. We Spoke About Personal Things, Our Lives, Who We Are. As We Were Leaving, I Hugged Him. A Hug That Lasted Several Minutes. It Felt Like “Home,” Even Though It Came from a Man Who Seemed Cold, Serious, and Distant. In That Hug, I Felt That Deep Down He Wasn’t Really Like That. I Don’t Know If He Felt Awkward—Just Like Me. But You Could Sense He Wasn’t Doing Well and That the Hug Meant Something. We Parted with One More, Shorter Hug. We Kept Chatting Late Into the Night. Days Went By Like This—“Good Morning” from Him, Texts Throughout the Day, Endless Messages. We Started Going Out. We Spoke About Deep Things, Shared Dreams, Imagined Different Futures. He Told Me He Lived with a Mate. He Told Me About His Ex. He Said He Liked Chatting with Girls and Female Friends He’d Dated. Then He Moved Back in with His Parents. We Made Our Relationship Official, and Then He Admitted the Truth: He Had Actually Been Living with His Ex. According to Him, Nothing Was Going on Between Them—Even Before That—but They Worked Together. He Posted a Photo of Them Together. On His Birthday, I’d Planned to Take Him Out to a Beautiful Medieval-Style Restaurant to Surprise Him. But Around Noon, I Got an Instagram Message from a Woman Insulting Me. I Didn’t Respond. I Just Asked Him What Was Going On. He Reminded Me About His Ex—That She Loved Sending People to Harass Others and Send Nasty Messages. I Didn’t Answer Until I Spoke to Him. He Said He’d Sorted It, but the Messages Continued. I Only Responded As Much as Needed. I’m Not a Woman Who Lowers Herself or Responds to Arrogance at Her Level. Then I Blocked. We Got Through It. Moved Forward. Our Relationship Even Grew Stronger. We Shared More. I Was Out of Work, and He Encouraged Me to Find a Job. Sometimes He Helped Out with Expenses, Which Embarrassed Me. I Never Asked—He Did It on His Own. When He Went on Holiday, He Told Me to Stay at His. I Did, but Made the Mistake of Staying Both Weeks. He “Tested” Me—to See What I Was Like at Home. He Spent Loads on Takeaways, Saying Cooking Was a Waste of Time and Ready Food Was Always an Option. The Holiday Ended and a Lot of Money Had Been Spent. I Told Him to Save, but He Didn’t Listen. Then He Told Me I Hadn’t Helped Him Save, That If He Spent Money It Was Because I Let Him—even Though I’d Suggested Cooking and Being Careful with Our Spending. After That, He Told Me He Had Bills to Pay, Which Stressed Him Out—and That Made Me Feel Bad. I Got a Job and Then He Told Me He Would “Test” Me Again. The Test Was to See If I Would Help Pay for Living There and for Everything He’d Spent. He Said It Felt Like He Was Supporting Me. I Didn’t Know What to Say. I Was Still Learning How to Live in a Relationship. He Said Everything Would Change—and It Did. Hardly Any Plans or Meetings. Messages Became Short. He Said He Had to Catch Up Financially, That He Was Now Struggling, That He Couldn’t Even Eat Properly. Everything Started To Fall Apart. One Day, He Told Me I Was “Draining His Wallet,” That I’d Hurt Him Financially—even Though I’d Never Asked for Anything. I Had a Job. Sometimes I Paid, Sometimes He Did. But There Were No More Plans. Everything Was Different. We Decided to End Things. We Broke Up on Good Terms—Thankful for the Good and the Lessons Learned. We Closed the Door with Dignity. Then We Tried Again. We Spoke. But I Didn’t Like Staying at His After Work with No Food. Sometimes He Didn’t Even Invite Me to Eat. I Wondered Whether to Pack Lunch or Eat a Big Breakfast So I Wouldn’t Go Hungry. I Told Him How I Felt, but He Didn’t Say Anything or Offer a Solution. It Made Me Feel Like I Was On My Own. That Killed the Relationship. One Day, While with Him, I Felt Faint on the Train, Almost Passed Out. I Sat on the Floor So I Wouldn’t Collapse. He Didn’t React. That Finally Drove Me Away. I Grew Distant Inside. Deep Down, I Wanted Him, But Knew He Wasn’t the Man I Wanted By My Side—Despite the Dreams and Goals We’d Shared. I Begged Him Many Times Not To Go to Bed Angry. But I Started Falling Asleep Next To Him in Tears. Until One Day, I Decided I Wouldn’t Take It Anymore. I Got Up Early, Packed My Things, and Left. We Talked. I Told Him How I Felt. I Had Given Him a Drawing He Loved, But I Took It Off the Wall and Kept It. I Shouldn’t Have Done That. Something Broke in Me—and in Him. Weeks Later, We Spoke Again. He Told Me That by Taking the Drawing, I Took Away the Happiness He’d Felt With It, and That Something Was Broken Forever. We Closed the Door Again. Sometimes I Sent Him Thank You Messages or Videos, But He Didn’t Reply. It Was All Empty. One Night, Around Midnight, I Received a Message Full of Insults—Saying I Was the Woman Who’d Torn Him from His Family. I Deleted the Chat and Blocked. Then People from the Company He Worked For Started Contacting Me on Social Media. I Knew It Was His Ex or His New Partner. I Didn’t Reply. I Spoke to His Workplace and Set a Boundary—Said I’d Take Legal Action If It Continued. That Stopped It. It Made Me Sad. I Changed. I Realised He Wasn’t the Man I Want. We Split on Good Terms, but Seeing Him Again with Someone Who Had Caused Him So Much Chaos Really Hurt. Sometimes I Miss Him. I Miss Some of the Good Things. But That’s All. One Thing I Know for Sure: With Me, He Felt Calm and Proud. I Don’t Think He’ll Feel That with Her—Or Be the Man He’d Want to Show the World.

Author Emily TaylorReading 8 minViews 2

I miss him. I’ve never missed anyone quite like this before. And I honestly can’t explain whyespecially since, with him, I never felt completely comfortable and there were things about us that didn’t sit right with me.

We met on Facebook. We started chatting, and, after a while, he invited me out for coffee. We ended up in this little park. That day, I was feeling really lowemotionally drained, and physically too, after a tough session at the gym had left my legs aching. We talked for ages in the park; it was evening, the sky was clear, and the cold was biting. Our conversation turned personalwe talked about life, who we are, all those things.

When it was time to leave, I hugged him. It was one of those long hugs that linger for minutes. It felt like “home,” surprisingly, even though he always came across as distant, serious, cold. But in that moment, deep down, I sensed he wasn’t really any of those things. I don’t know if it made him uncomfortablehonestly, it did me too. But I could feel that he wasn’t in a good place either, and that the hug meant something to him. We said goodbye with another, shorter hug.

We kept messaging late into the night. That became our routine; he’d text “good morning,” and we’d chat on and off all day, always in touch. Soon, we started seeing each other more often. Our conversations became deep, we shared dreams and played out different scenarios for the future. He told me about his old flatmate, spoke about his ex, said he liked texting with girls and friends he used to go out with. Later, he moved back in with his parents.

After we made our relationship official, the truth came out: he admitted he’d actually been sharing a flat with his ex the whole time. According to him, nothing had been going on between them for ages, even before, but they still worked together.

He posted a picture of the two of them. On his birthday, I decided I’d surprise him by taking him to this lovely, medieval-style restaurant I found. I’d planned everything, but that afternoon, I got a message on Instagram from a woman, full of insults. I didn’t respond, just showed it to him and asked what was going on. He reminded me about his exsaid she liked to send people after others, to harass and send abusive messages. I waited to hear his side before replying to anything. He assured me hed sorted it, but the messages kept coming. Eventually, I only replied once, as briefly as possible. Im not the type to stoop to that sort of arrogance. I blocked her and tried to move on.

We got through that patch. Moved forward. If anything, it brought us closer. We shared more with each other. I was out of work for a while and he encouraged me to look for something new. Now and then, he’d help me out financiallysomething I was always embarrassed about. I never asked for it; he just did it. When he went on holiday, he told me to stay at his place. I did, but I made the mistake of staying both weeks.

He was “testing” meto see what I was like at home, apparently. He’d spend loads of money ordering takeaways because, he said, cooking was a waste of time, and you could always just buy ready-made food. By the end of the holiday, he’d spent a fortune. I told him we should save, but he wouldnt listen. Later, he told me I hadn’t helped him save, that if he spent money it was because I let himeven though I’d been suggesting we cook and watch the pennies.

He went on about all the bills he had to pay and how it was stressing him outthat made me feel guilty. When I found work, he said now hed test me again. This time, he wanted to see if Id chip in with money for living with him and for everything hed spent. He said he felt like he was supporting me. I didnt know how to reply. I was still learning what a relationship really meant.

He said things would change, and they did. No more plans, barely any meet-ups. His messages grew short. He’d say he needed to catch up on money, that he was struggling financially, not eating properly. Everything started to unravel.

One day, he told me I was “draining his wallet,” that I had caused him financial problemseven though Id never once asked him for anything and was working by then anyway. Sometimes Id pay, sometimes he would, but the spark had gone. We stopped making plans for the future. We decided to end things. We did it kindlygrateful for the good times and the lessons. We shut the door with dignity.

After a while, we gave things another try. We spoke again. But I hated staying at his without being offered so much as a meal after work. Sometimes I wasnt even invited to join for food; it left me wondering if I should bring my own lunch or have a big breakfast so I wouldnt get hungry. I told him how it made me feel, but he just stayed silentnever suggested a solution. It made me feel like I was on my own even while with him. It killed the relationship bit by bit.

Then, one day when we were together, I started feeling faint on the busnearly passed out. I had to sit on the floor to stop myself collapsing. He didnt react. That was it for me. I distanced myself inside. I wanted to want him, but I knew he wasnt the man I needed in my life, no matter all the plans and dreams wed talked about.

Time and again, I asked him not to go to sleep angry. But, in the end, Id fall asleep next to him in tears. Until one morning, I decided I couldnt do it anymore. I got up early, packed my things, and left. We talked. I told him how I felt. Id given him a drawing Id made, something he really loved, but I took it down from the wall and left with it. I shouldnt have done that. Something broke in both of us.

Weeks later, we spoke again. He told me that taking the drawing away had stolen the happiness he got from it, that it was the last straw. We closed the door again. Sometimes I sent him messages to thank him, or a video here and there, but he never replied. It was all empty.

Then, one night near midnight, I got a message full of insultstelling me I was the woman whod turned him against his family. I deleted the chat and blocked the number. Then, people from his work started messaging me on social media. I knew it was his ex or maybe his new girlfriend. I ignored it. Spoke to management and set a boundarytold them if it carried on, Id take legal action. That put a stop to it.

I felt sad. Id changed. I realised he wasnt the right man for me. Wed parted on good terms, but seeing him again with someone whod caused so much chaos hurt deeply.

Sometimes I miss him. I miss the good parts. But thats all. One thing I know for certain: with me, he felt peace and pride. I dont think hell have that with heror be the man hed want the world to see.

He Closed the Door Right in My Face “Mum, I know you don’t love me…” Zoe froze, towel in hand, and turned slowly to face her son. Alex stood in the doorway, sulking, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pyjama bottoms. “What?” Zoe folded the towel. “Why on earth would you think that?” “Gran said so.” Of course—Gran. “And what else did Gran say?” Alex stepped into the kitchen, chin raised stubbornly, his eyes defiant—so much like his father. “She said you left Dad because you didn’t want me to have a proper family. A real one. That you left just to spite me so I wouldn’t be a happy child.” Zoe stared at her son. Nearly ten years old. It had been two years since they started living alone, since Val disappeared from Alex’s life without so much as a call or even a birthday card. Tamara Peterson, ex-mother-in-law extraordinaire, made sure to see Alex every weekend—and drip poison in his ear. “Alex, darling,” Zoe tried to keep her voice even, “you really shouldn’t listen to everything Gran says. She doesn’t know everything.” “She does!” Alex’s voice jumped. “She knows it all! You’re the liar! If you loved me, you would have kept the family together! You wouldn’t have filed for divorce! You wouldn’t have destroyed everything!” Every word was a knife to Zoe’s heart. She saw his trembling lip, his bright eyes. He believed it. God, he really believed it. “Alex—” “Dad would still be with us! We’d be together!” “Your father hasn’t called you once in two years,” Zoe blurted. “Not once, do you hear me?” “That’s because you won’t let him! Gran says you forbid him!” Alex spun and ran out of the kitchen. A second later—slam—the bedroom door shook the house. Zoe stayed by the table—half-folded towels, ticking clock, loud silence. She sat, buried her face in her hands. The tears came hot and furious. Val had cheated, spent two months with some woman from his office. When Zoe found out, he barely bothered to apologise. Shrugged. These things happen. How could she forgive him? How could she live with a man who lied straight to her face? And now, Alex blamed her for everything. And Tamara Peterson—saintly Granny—kept weaving her web. Her precious son did nothing wrong, it was the wife who couldn’t put up with things, who wouldn’t keep the family for the sake of the child. Zoe wiped her face and looked out the window. Her child—nearly ten. He didn’t understand. Perhaps he wouldn’t for a long time. Three days crawled by painfully. Alex was there but distant—even breakfasting, homework, dinner. A shadow behind glass. Zoe asked about school—he muttered, glued to his phone. She called him to dinner—he came, ate in silence. She tried to hug him at bedtime—he wriggled away, muttered “night” and closed his bedroom door. On Friday, Zoe decided: enough. After work, she went shopping. A “Black Forest” gateau, his favourite crisps, a big ham-and-mushroom pizza. Maybe a movie. Maybe they’d talk, like before. She pushed open the flat door, dragged the bags into the kitchen. “Alex! Come see what I’ve brought!” Silence. “Alex?” She went down the hall, opened his door—empty. Bed stripped, books on the desk, but…the rucksack was gone. His coat missing, too. She grabbed her phone and rang him. Long rings, then voicemail. Texted: “Where are you? Call me.” The ticks turned blue—he’d read it. No reply. She called again. Once, twice, five times—declined. “What is going on…” Fingers shook, slipped on the screen. Again and again—ring, ring, ring. Click. “Hello?” “Alex!” Zoe clutched the phone. “Where are you? Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” His voice was calm. Far too calm. “Where are you? Why did you leave?” “I’ve gone to Dad’s. I’m going to live with him.” Zoe stood frozen. “What?!” “Gran said Dad wanted to take me. In court. But you insisted. You made them leave me with you. Well, I don’t want to. I’ll be better off with Dad.” “Alex, wait—” Short beeps. Disconnected. She rang back—declined. Again—now switched off. Chaos. She shoved on her coat, dropped her bag, called a cab. She still knew Val’s address by heart. Twenty minutes in traffic. Twenty minutes chewing her nails and thoughts. Taxis edged into the estate. Zoe thrust a note at the driver and ran. On the bench outside the block sat Alex. His coat thrown open, rucksack at his feet, face wet, red, shoulders trembling. He’d been crying. She rushed over, kneeling on the wet pavement, and grabbed his shoulders. The cold soaked through her jeans—she didn’t care. “Are you okay? Have you eaten? What happened? Why are you crying?” Her hands checked—arms, face—making sure he was in one piece. Cheeks frozen, nose red, eyelashes stuck with tears. Alex met her eyes. Red, swollen, so much pain she could hardly breathe. “Dad chucked me out.” Zoe stiffened. Her hands froze on his shoulders. “What?” “He lives with someone else—there’s a little kid,” Alex sniffed, wiping his face with a sleeve, smearing tears and dirt. “He wouldn’t even let me inside. Told me I shouldn’t have come. To go back to Mum. And he just shut the door. Right in my face.” His voice cracked, and he turned away. Shoulders shaking. Zoe pulled him close, hugged him tightly, buried her face in his hair—smelling of cold air and children’s shampoo. This time he didn’t pull away. For the first time in three days—he clung on, pressed his face into her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she whispered, once the tears eased, “let’s sort this, once and for all.” Fifteen minutes in a taxi to Tamara Peterson’s. Alex silent, staring out at the streetlamps. Zoe held his hand—he didn’t let go. His small, cold hand in hers. The door flew open at once, as if his gran were waiting. Dressing gown, curlers, slippers with bobbles—the picture of domestic bliss. Only her eyes—they darted, wary. “Oh!” Tamara brought her hands to her chest, stepping back. “Has your mother dragged you here? Wants to turn you against your dad? Against me?” Alex stepped forward, across the threshold. Zoe saw his back—thin, tense, so childlike under that soon-too-small coat. “Gran,” Alex raised his head, and Zoe heard something new in his voice—grown up—“you lied to me, didn’t you?” Tamara blinked. For a moment, her mask slipped. “What? Alex dearest, whatever do you mean?” “I went to Dad’s. He turned me away. Why?” Zoe watched her face change—the kindly-grandmother mask slipping, eyes darting between grandson and Zoe. “Alex, darling, it’s your mother’s fault, she—” “You told me that Mum wouldn’t let me and Dad talk. That she wouldn’t let him call me. That he missed me. Waited for me.” Alex’s fists clenched, knuckles white. “So why did he close the door in my face? Why didn’t he even want to see me? Why did he look at me like a stranger?” “He’s busy, it’s a tough time for him…” “Or maybe Mum was telling the truth?” Alex’s voice rose, and Tamara flinched. “That he doesn’t want me? That he never wanted our family? He’s got a new wife now. A little baby. They’re all so happy. Why would he want me? I’m just in the way—someone he couldn’t care less about!” Tamara straightened, chin up, her eyes flashing something fierce, cornered. “She’s put this in your head!” she snapped, jabbing at Zoe. “It’s all your mother’s fault, she destroyed the family, she—” “Enough!” Alex shouted, Zoe jumped. The stairwell echoed his anger. “You’re lying! I’ve had enough of your stories! For two years you told me fairytales about Dad, but he never even called me for my birthday! Never! I’m not coming back here, not ever. Don’t phone me again. If Dad doesn’t want me—then I don’t want him. Or you.” He grabbed Zoe’s hand. “Mum, let’s go.” Tamara stood in the doorway, pale and open-mouthed. For the first time ever, Zoe saw her lost—bereft—without her usual armour of blame and bitterness. “Goodbye,” Zoe said, and closed the door gently behind them. At home, Alex ate two slices of cold pizza and drank three mugs of hot tea with raspberry jam. He sat on the sofa, wrapped in his tartan blanket, subdued, nose still red. Outside, it was pitch black, and the lamplight cast warm shadows across his face. “Mum.” “Yes, love?” “I’m sorry.” Zoe set down her mug, looked at her son—small shoulders, ruffled hair, that stubborn crease between his brows. “You always tried. Did everything for me. Worked so hard, cooked, took care of me. I just listened to Gran. I believed her, not you.” Alex stared at the fringe on the blanket. “That’s not going to happen again. From now on, I’ll think for myself. I’ll trust what I see. Not what people tell me.” Zoe smiled, moved closer, ruffled his hair. He didn’t dodge—leaned into her, just as he did when he was little. The lesson was harsh. Maybe even cruel. But Alex had learned it.