I became disillusioned with my chosen partner and ended things right after visiting her home.
I was married for thirteen years, and my former wife was never what you’d call a classic beauty. In our younger years, she captivated me with her delicate nature, her kindness, and an elusive softness that touched my soul. She may not have been stunning, but she knew how to present herself well. She often indulged in luxurious lace lingerie and filled our bathroom with shelves of creams, perfumes, oils, and cosmetics. There were so many bottles that I often got lost among them, but she always smelled divine, like a flower garden. We both earned good money, living comfortably, allowing her to afford these little luxuries.
My ex-wife never allowed herself to wander around the house in worn-out clothes—her hair was always styled, and her clothes ironed. I admired women like her: well-groomed and self-assured. But fate took a different path, and we divorced five years ago. Since then, my life became a series of fleeting encounters. Women came and went without leaving a mark, until I met her—Sophie. She seemed like she was from another world: beautiful, alluring, with delicate features and a confident stride. She managed a team of men at work with such ease that I couldn’t help but be impressed. I decided: I couldn’t let her go.
It all began with innocent conversations, but soon I invited her over to my flat in London. I didn’t cook—I ordered dinner from a restaurant, but I set the table myself, putting my heart into it. The evening was magical: wine, laughter, and long gazes. Sophie stayed the night, and from then on, she was a frequent guest. Yet, the more often she visited, the more her behavior bothered me. She never brought a makeup bag, a change of clothes, or any lingerie. In the mornings, I saw her looking disheveled: mascara smudged, hair tangled, a weary face. After showering, she’d put on the same clothes from the day before, which was hard for me to overlook. Honestly, I was deeply disappointed.
One day, Sophie invited me to her place. I expected chaos—her habits at my home hinted at a lack of neatness. But as I stepped into her apartment, I was taken aback by not disorder, but something else entirely. Inside was a fresh renovation—stylish, expensive, with quality furniture and trendy details. Everything screamed taste and affluence. However, when I entered the bathroom to wash my hands, my heart sank. There stood only a lonely shampoo bottle and a tube of toothpaste on the shelf. That was it. No trace of luxury, no hint of self-care. I remembered my ex-wife—her shelves bursting with bottles, the bathroom fragrant with aromas, which to me was a sign of femininity, self-respect. Here, there was emptiness.
Sophie had recently turned 33, but it seemed she hadn’t considered how to preserve her youth. Was she not worried about wrinkles, aging skin? I stood staring at that barren shelf, feeling disappointment grow within me. But the real blow awaited me on the balcony. There, hanging on the line, was her underwear—grey, plain, with no hint of elegance. She noticed my glance and casually said, “Comfort is what matters to me.” Those words sounded like a verdict.
At 42, perhaps I had become overly critical? Maybe my habits and expectations were a burden from the past that I couldn’t shake off? But I knew: I couldn’t live with a woman like that. We parted ways—I ended it myself. I left without looking back, with a heavy heart but certain that I couldn’t accept that emptiness where I had expected beauty and care. Sophie was beautiful on the outside, but within her home, I saw only indifference to herself—and that killed everything that might have been between us.
