I grew disillusioned with my girlfriend and left her immediately after visiting her home.
I was married for thirteen years, and my ex-wife never had the typical striking beauty. In our younger days, she charmed me with her delicacy, softness, and an elusive gentleness that touched the soul. She wasn’t dazzling, yet she always knew how to present herself. The luxurious lace lingerie she indulged in, the shelves in our bathroom overflowing with creams, perfumes, oils, and cosmetics—all this was her domain. There were so many bottles and jars that I often got lost in the sheer number, but she always smelled like a blooming garden. We both earned well and lived comfortably, allowing her to afford these little luxuries.
My ex-wife never let herself wander around the house in worn-out clothes. Her hair was always done, and her clothes impeccably pressed. I admired women like that: well-groomed and self-assured. But fate had other plans—five years ago, we divorced, and since then, my life became a series of fleeting encounters. Women came and went without leaving a mark until I met her—Alice. She seemed like someone from another world: beautiful, captivating, with delicate features and a confident stride. She managed a team of men at work with such ease that I was genuinely impressed. I decided: I couldn’t let her slip away.
It all started with innocent chats, but soon enough, I invited her over to my flat in Manchester. I didn’t cook—ordered dinner from a restaurant, but I laid the table myself, pouring my heart into it. The evening was magical: wine, laughter, lingering glances. Alice stayed the night, and from then on, she became a frequent visitor. But the more she came over, the more her behavior began to bother me. She never brought a makeup bag, a change of clothes, or any other essentials. In the mornings, I saw her in disarray: smudged mascara, tangled hair, a weary face. After showering, she’d put on the same clothes from the day before, and it was an eyesore. Frankly, I was disappointed to my core.
One day, Alice invited me over to her place. I went, expecting chaos—her habits at my home hinted at untidiness. But when I stepped into her flat, I was shocked. It wasn’t chaos but something entirely different. Inside was a fresh renovation—stylish, expensive, with quality furniture and trendy details. Everything screamed taste and prosperity. But when I went to the bathroom to wash my hands, my heart sank. On the shelf sat only a lonely shampoo and a lone tube of toothpaste. And that was it. No luxury, no hint of self-care. I recalled my ex-wife—her shelves overflowing with bottles, our bathroom fragrant with scents, which I saw as a sign of femininity and self-respect. But here—emptiness.
Alice had recently turned 33, yet she seemed oblivious to maintaining her youth. Was she not worried about wrinkles or aging skin? I stood there, staring at that sparse shelf, feeling the disillusionment growing inside. But the real blow awaited me on the balcony. There, hanging on the line, was her laundry—gray, simple, with no hint of elegance. She noticed my gaze and casually said, “Comfort is what matters most to me.” Those words felt like a verdict.
Maybe, at my age of 42, I’ve become too critical? Are my habits and expectations just baggage from the past I can’t let go? But I realized: I couldn’t live with a woman like her. We parted ways—I ended it myself. I left without looking back, with a heavy heart, yet sure I couldn’t accept the emptiness where I hoped to find beauty and care. Alice was stunning on the outside, but inside her home, I saw only neglect towards herself—and it destroyed everything we might have had.
