Im thirty now. A few months back, I ended a relationship that had lasted for eight years. There was no infidelity, no shouting, no ugly rows. It was just that one day, sitting across from her, I had an uncomfortable realisation: in her life, I was the in progress man. The worst part is, Im certain she hadnt the faintest idea.
Throughout all those years, we were simply boyfriend and girlfriend. We never moved in together. I lived at my parents house; she stayed with her family. I had a decent job at a firm, and she ran her own little café. We were both independenteach with our own responsibilities, schedules, and wages. There wasnt any financial reason to keep putting things off. Somehow, though, it was always a decision for tomorrow.
I suggested time and again that we move in together. I never pressured her about a lavish wedding or mapped out complicated plans. In fact, Id always said I didnt believe marriage was necessary, that a piece of paper didnt define the life wed built. I told her I thought our relationship was solid and that we could share a real home, our daily lives, a proper future. She always found a reason to avoid it: the timing was off, the café needed attention, we should just wait a bit longer.
Meanwhile, everything became routine to the point of monotony. We met on specific days, rang each other at set times, visited the same places. I knew her house, knew her family, even her troubles. She knew mine. It was all snug and safe, never stepping beyond what was comfortableno risks, no genuine change. We were a steady, but utterly stagnant couple.
One day, something finally hit me hard: I was growing, but our relationship wasnt. I started worrying about time. If we kept on like this, I might reach forty and still be the perpetual fiancé. No shared home, no genuine plans, no dreams togetherjust the companionship of seeing each other and going along as we had. Not because she was a bad person, but because she simply wanted different things.
Breaking up was not a rash choice. I mulled it over for months. When I finally told her, there was no argumentonly silence. She honestly didnt understand. She said we were fine, that we lacked nothing. Thats when it clicked: for her, this was enough. For me, it no longer was.
Afterwards, came the ache. Even though I was the one to walk away, I missed the routinethe texts, the calls, the shared time. I realised it wasnt love I missed, but habit. The security of the familiar.
What really surprised me was how others responded. Id steeled myself for criticism, expecting people to say I was making a fuss, that eight years wasnt something you just chuck aside. But most told me the opposite. They said it was about time, that a bloke like me shouldnt settle. That Id waited long enough.
Even now, Im still processing it all. Im not out searching for someone new. Im in no rush. The lesson this has taught me is painfully clear: sometimes, comfort can be the biggest trap. If you dont take charge and challenge your own routines, you may just find yourself standing stillwhile life carries on.
