I first met Oliver at a quantumphysics lecture at Oxford. It sounds dry, but among the equations and the talk of countless universes I found a kindred spirit.
He was sitting a few rows ahead, and I could feel his gaze warm, genuinely interested. After the class, Oliver approached, stumbling a little, and said,
Excuse me, I missed the previous lecture. I see youve been taking diligent notes, and your handwritings impressive. Could I borrow your notebook for a couple of days?
No problem. Im Poppy, by the way. Shall we be on a firstname basis? Oliver, right?
He gave a quiet nod, as if he hadnt noticed how easily the conversation was flowing.
We went to the college café and, over a cup of tea, chatted as if wed known each other for a century books, professors, the absurdities of existence, and how December smells of autumn. Oliver turned out to be the sort of man you enjoy talking to and also sit in comfortable silence with; his quiet filled the room better than any words could. From day one he became my best friend.
So when, three months later, he stood at my flats doorstep with a bouquet of soft tulips and asked me to marry him, I said yes.
It felt like the most sensible thing in the world. Everyone around us declared, Youre made for each other! and we believed them. We fitted together like the two halves of a puzzle. What we didnt foresee was the lack of fire between us the spark that makes blood race and breath catch.
Our wedding night was sweet. We laughed, knocked over champagne, talked until dawn, then fell asleep in each others arms like two exhausted children. Yet that night I felt a cold pang of anxiety, as if I were hugging the best person in the world but missing the electric shiver that novels rave about.
We lived a cosy, uncomplicated life. We cooked together, went to the cinema, read books aloud to one another. It was warm, snug, and safe like slipping into the comfiest slippers. One day my friend Kate, watching us, sighed,
Youre like an old couple whove been together for thirty years.
Her tone carried pity, not admiration. That observation planted a seed. I started to feel I was sinking into a quiet swamp, finding myself staring at strangers on the tube, not because they were better than Oliver, but because they looked at me completely differently.
The turning point came six months later.
We were in the kitchen, Oliver beaming as he described a new scientific paper. I stared at his kind, intelligent face, his eager eyes, and a wave of chilling clarity washed over me: I dont love this man the way Im supposed to love a husband.
It wasnt hatred or irritation. It was the bitter realisation that we had mistaken the strongest possible friendship for love.
That night I couldnt sleep. I lay beside him, watched his face, and felt like a monster. How could I hurt the person I valued most? Worse still, I was condemning us both to a life without love.
In the morning, while he was brewing coffee and humming to himself, I confessed, keeping my gaze on the table because I couldnt meet his eyes.
Oliver, I cant go on like this. I dont love you. Im sorry it was a mistake.
He froze, kettle in hand.
What what do you mean? his voice trembled.
I mean were not husband and wife. Were friends very close friends. And we killed that friendship by putting a wedding ring on it.
Oliver set the kettle down, sat heavily, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. My heart split. I wanted to pull him into an embrace, to take my words back, but I knew I couldnt. That would be even crueler.
Why? he finally managed. What did I do wrong?
Nothing! I shouted, my voice cracking. You were perfect! Youre the best person in my life. But theres no passion, Oliver. No fire. Just a warm, reliable light. At twentythree I want fire. I dont want you to spend your whole life shining that gentle light for someone who cant appreciate it.
We filed for divorce quickly. The day the papers were signed the sun shone brightly, the weather was delightful. Oliver looked pale and lost. He kept everything inside, and that only made things worse for me. Clearly, I was the villain in this scene.
Lets keep in touch, I said, fighting back tears. Please. Youre still my best friend.
He looked at me, his eyes full of a deep hurt that made me regret my words. Oliver couldnt even imagine that the friendship was still salvageable.
I dont know, Poppy, he admitted honestly. I need time.
Oliver left, and I stood alone, feeling as if Id just destroyed the best relationship of my life with my own hands. Yet, buried beneath the guilt and regret, a tiny ember of hope flickered hope that one day we could laugh together again, as friends.
When the pain faded, Oliver realised Id been right. Turning our relationship into a romance had been a mistake. After some months the resentment melted and we began chatting again. He never tried to win me back, never made me feel uncomfortable, never brought up our brief marriage, and didnt get jealous even when other suitors came my way. Instead, he became the sort of mate I could confide in.
Whenever I felt down, I could ring him or drop by for a good cry after a breakup. As for Olivers love life, it never really took off. He was attractive, educated, and charming, but each new relationship fizzled out something was always missing.
Of course, he still cared for me and did everything he could to stay present in my life, though I only truly understood that years later.
Three years later, on holiday, I was charmed by a man from Newcastle. We spent two wonderful weeks together and, before parting, he suddenly proposed. I said yes.
Oliver heard the news from my brother Mike. He was so crushed that he declined to meet me before I left.
No, Poppy, sorry, works swamped, he said curtly when I suggested we have a drink.
At the train station Mike told me that Oliver had secretly hoped Id come back to him someday, and now I was marrying someone else and moving away.
Now youll finally have to throw that hopeless love out of your head, sis, he said as we said goodbye.
My husband now also believes that men and women cant be just friends. I quickly found myself missing Oliver. At first I felt guilty, thinking Id been selfish, but then I realised I longed for our conversations, for someone whod endured as many trials with me and knew me inside out. In short, Id never had a better friend than Oliver.
Three years later I rang him and invited him over to christen my son. He was so flustered that he agreed straight away, without asking any questions.
I met him on the platform alone.
You havent changed a bit, I said.
It wasnt true, but it felt nice.
Youve grown up a little, seemed more serious, he replied.
Honestly, I didnt sleep a wink all night I was nervous, I admitted.
Sorry I left without really talking, I whispered. I didnt know how to say it. I was scared. It was hard to part from you.
He looked surprised, and in his eyes I saw the same relief I felt.
Its alright. I was bitter like a schoolboy, he exhaled, and the last tension left him. All those years I suffered, and we should have just talked it through and remained friends.
Within an hour they were at home, where Oliver met my husband David and our lively son.
Three days flew by.
Oliver liked Davids downtoearth nature, and the three of us reminisced about everything except the events before my departure. He never asked if I was happy; he could see it in my calm eyes, in the way I spoke about my husband, in the peace of my motherhood. That happiness didnt wound him; it warmed him.
I hope youll visit my family again soon, Oliver said as he left, his words genuine, no trace of pretense. The ghost of an unrequited love finally rested.
I smiled, my eyes sparkling.
Definitely. First, find that perfect match. And well both be happily friendly families.
We hugged goodbye tightly, like good mates, with no shadow of old pain. Oliver boarded the train, waved through the window, and settled into his seat.
The train lurched forward.
Oliver watched the city lights fade and didnt feel the usual heaviness. Instead, a strange new sensation settled over him lightness.
