I miss him. Ive never missed someone in quite this way, not with such odd pangs in my chest, not when there were so many things I didnt particularly like about him, so many times I didnt quite feel at ease by his side. And yet, the longing lingers without sense or reason, as if a ghostly presence.
We met in that digital fogI think it was on Facebook, though in dreams it is always some vague blue-tinged liminal space. Messages floated to and fro, and one misty afternoon he asked me for tea. We met in one of those endless London parks, all twisted oaks and grass strewn with chill. That evening, I was physically aching from some overzealous gym session, legs throbbing with soreness, and emotionally I was a fogged ruineverything felt blunt and drizzly. We talked on a frozen bench beneath a sky too clear to be real, spilling out odd secrets and daydreams, bare and raw as the night air.
When we parted, I hugged him. The embrace clung for ages, stretching into surreal moments so long I wondered if I might wake up there. He was distant, serious, almost glacial, and yet his arms felt quietly like home. In that embrace, something slipped througha softness, an ache, both of us uncomfortable but none of us letting go. He seemed not himself for a flicker, and nor was I. There was pain there that neither of us would speak.
We exchanged another hasty hug, and then London swallowed us back up. Afterwards, messages arrived in stringshis good morning, my drowsy replies, short texts throughout the hours until night spun silver mist again. We started seeing each other, always caught in deep summer-twilight talks about impossible futures and lives we might have elsewhere. He let slip that he lived with a mate; then quietly admitted it was his exthough they were, apparently, only coexisting, even before we met, nothing but flatmates with shared memories.
There was a photo uploadedone of those smiling snapshots that seem to hover on the edge of memory. On his birthday, I had planned a secret: I would whisk him away to some old pub styled as a medieval hall, dark timbers and roaring fireplaces, to surprise him in the haze of candles and clinking pints. But midday, I received a venomous message on Instagram from a woman seething with insults. I didnt reply, only asked what was going on; he muttered about his former partner, her penchant for sending allies to trouble others, keyboard warriors armed with barbs. I said nothing until we spoke. He said it was sorted, but the abuse kept coming. Eventually, I repliedjust enough. Im not one to stoop into the muck with strangers. I blocked her and moved on.
It passed. The river of days tumbled along and, strangely, our bond deepened; more sharing, more laughter pouring between cracks. I was out of work then, and hed urge me to look for something, sometimes slipping me a few pounds to help with bus fare or a £10 lunch here and there, which made me squirm with discomfort. I never askedhe just felt compelled. He went on holiday, told me to stay at his; I did, and in a dreams logic, lingered for two strange weeks.
He was testing meseeing what I was like at home, as if living together in this odd slice of time told him something real. He bought endless takeaway, always saying cooking was a waste, that London serves up hot meals at all hours. In the end, we had burned through too much moneyfar too many pounds stirring down the Thames. I told him to save, he didnt listen. Afterward, he accused me: I hadnt helped him economise, that if he spent money it was because I let him, never mind my quiet suggestions to cook and mind the pennies.
Then came a new refrain: bills were piling, stress mounting. It made me shrink inside myself. I eventually found work, and he told me now hed be testing me. Would I give him money for board, to pay him back for every meal, every moment Id been under his roof? He complained he felt like my provider. I was speechless; stumbling through learning the brittle art of sharing a life.
He said things would changeand they did. Plans vanished, meetings evaporated, messages grew curt and clipped. He muttered about regaining stable footing, said he was tight for pounds, not eating well. The dream unravelled, unspooling at the seams.
One day, he said Id emptied his pockets, as if my presence leeched the coins from his hands. It wasnt trueI worked now, sometimes I paid, sometimes he did, but the harmony was lost. Together, we agreed to end it; parted kindly, grateful for what was good, lessons tucked away like odd receipts. We closed the door gently.
We tried again, a repeat in dream logic. We talked. But staying at his place after work left my stomach hollowoften he didnt ask if Id eaten, never offered supper, sometimes didnt speak as I wandered hungry in his strange rooms. Should I bring my own lunch? Should I eat a heavy breakfast to stave off hunger? I told him how I felt, but he said nothing, proposed no solution. It left me responsible for my own lacksomething fatal to our connection.
One day, in the belly of the Tube, I went faint, nearly slid to the carriage floor. He made no moveit was as though I had become little more than a wisp beside him. After that, something within me retreated. I wanted him still, deep within, but recognised that he was not the kind of man I needed at my side despite all our shared dreams.
Again and again I asked that we not sleep angry. Yet more often, I lay by him in the dark, quietly crying. Until the morning I woke early, packed my things, and left. We talked later; I explained how I felt, how everything ached. Id given him a drawingsomething he adoredbut I took it down from his wall, tucked it into my bag. I shouldnt have, but something inside crackedperhaps for both of us.
Weeks later, we spoke once more. He said when I took that drawing, Id stolen from him the little happiness that was left, broken the spell for good. We closed the door again. Every now and then, I sent an odd thank-you message or a silly videonever a reply. Only echoing emptiness.
One night, right at midnight, a message arrivedbrimming with insults, blaming me for tearing him from his family. I deleted it, blocked him. Then the company where he worked began poking me online; I recognised the patternthe ex, or some new woman, spinning new threads. I left it unanswered, spoke with management, and drew a line: if this didnt end, Id take action. It all went quiet.
Sadness followed, lingering like an odd shadow in the corners of rooms I used to visit. I had changed. I realised: he was not the man I wanted. We parted well enough, but seeing him again, arm-in-arm with the very woman whod brought so much chaos, stung like an old cut reopened.
Sometimes the longing returnsthe memory of fleeting joys, of careless comfort in the haze. But thats all. And I know this now with a granitic certainty: with me, he felt peace; with me, he was proud. I doubt it will be the same with her, or that hell ever become the man he wishes the world to see.
