It’s always been a funny concept to me. I’ve believed in it with my whole, well, with my whole heart since I was old enough to understand what it was.
When M and I broke up, my whole world crumbled. But my belief in love remained, and grew fiercer with every single month that passed.
For five years I was single, with one night stands and flings lasting a matter of weeks before I threw them aside. I convinced myself that I was alone and had nothing in my sights. Truth was, there were opportunities, there were interested parties but it wasn’t for me.
I wondered for a while if I was being fussy. I remember toward the end of my first year of uni that I just wanted a boyfriend so badly, it didn’t matter who it was. This guy came along, we’ll call him S. He was on my roommates course and was . . . well, nothing about him really stands out.
S was quiet and shy, he knew everything about anything that didn’t interest me, he was studying IR, he was four years younger than me. But he liked me a lot, he paid me a lot of attention, he did whatever I told him to do without questioning it. So we got together. We went into the summer holidays as a couple and I went to his house three times. I never invited him to mine, but that was because I was ashamed of my house and my family, which is another kettle of fish all together.
The more time we spent together the more I heard everything my friends were telling me. He was nothing like me. We had nothing in common. He was boring. He didn’t even like Harry Potter for goodness sake.
Inevitably I ended things.
You’d think he’d have taught me lots about not settling for less than I deserve, and waiting for the right guy instead of just being with someone for the sake of being with someone. I know I hurt him and that was unnecessary.
Alas, there was another, let’s call him R, last year, who I met on a night out and who continued to booty call me on random nights at midnight. Yet he’d leave it just long enough between calls that I’d think it could be more.
R was a small, sweaty man who wasn’t at all interesting. But it had been so long since I felt anything that I let it be. And because my roommate at the time was a complete whore with stories to tell, I said to myself; this is okay, this is what’s done.
Needless to say, that stopped.
A good four months went by before I entered a cafe in which I used to work to see a friend. I was served by a guy, let’s call him Rob. (Because that is his name.)
Rob got my number from the aforementioned friend, and texting led to drinks, which led to drinks again, which led to a date, with a film and dinner and everything.
Nearly eight months later and we live together and I can’t believe how happy I am. I’m so in love with him and I feel like I’ll burst whenever I think about him, see him, talk to him, kiss him… everything.
I’ll stop before I get too soppy…
But, I guess the point of this post is that those five years felt like my whole life until I met him. I’m not someone who believes you need a significant other to make you happy, I believe you can find happiness in yourself, or in a career or a place or a pet.
For me though, it did take a man. It took Rob to show me that I can be happy. I miss him when he’s not around.
I used to be fiercely independent, and I was okay with that. In fact it made me, me. I was outspoken with how independent I was, with my ability to be by myself and enjoy my own company.
Now though, I am used to having him around and when he’s not, it throws me. I’m all for an independent woman and all, but have no shame in admitting that I am lonely when I’m alone these days.