Im 30 now, and a few months ago, I ended a relationship that had lasted eight years. There were no betrayals, no shouting matches, no messy scenes. It simply came down to one quiet afternoon when I sat across from him and faced a painfully clear truth: in his life, Id become the in progress woman. The saddest part was, he probably didnt even realise it.
Throughout all those years, wed only ever been boyfriend and girlfriend. We never moved in together. I lived at my parents house, and so did he. I had my career working for a firm, and he ran his own restaurant. We were both independent, each with our routines, our responsibilities, our own money. There was never a financial reason not to take the next step. Somehow, though, that step kept being postponed.
For years, I suggested we try living together. I never once brought up elaborate weddings or grand dreams. I always said that marriage wasnt a necessity, that a certificate didnt define what we already had. I told him our relationship was strong enough for us to share a home, a daily life, a real future. And every time, hed find an excuse hed say perhaps later, it wasnt the right moment, the restaurant was keeping him busy, it was better to wait.
Meanwhile, our relationship turned into this perfectly oil-slicked routine. Wed see each other on certain days, chat at particular times, visit the same spots. I knew his house, his family, all his problems. He knew mine. Life happened in the safest, most convenient shape no risk, no real change. We were a solid yet absolutely still couple.
One day, it struck me deeper than anything: I was growing, but our relationship wasnt. I started thinking about the time passing by. If we carried on like that, I might find myself at forty, still the eternal fiancée. No shared home, no proper plans, nothing in common except these scheduled meetings and the habit of being together. Not because he was a bad man, but simply because he didnt want the same things I did.
Deciding to end it was not an impulsive move. I thought about it for months. When I finally told him, there was no row. Just silence. He couldnt understand it at all. He said everything was fine, that we had everything we needed. That was the moment I knew for him, it was enough. For me, it wasnt any longer.
Afterwards, of course, came the pain. Even though I was the one who walked away, there were the habits the texts, the calls, the shared time. I found myself missing things that werent love at all; they were just routines. It was the comfort of the familiar.
What I didnt expect was how others reacted. I thought theyd criticise me, tell me I was making too much of it, that eight years isnt something you just walk away from. But so many told me the exact opposite. They said it was about time. That a woman like me shouldnt stand still. That Id waited more than long enough.
Even now, Im still working through it all. Im not looking for anyone else. Im not in a rush.
