I Never Truly Loved My Wife, Though I Told Her a Hundred Times—It Was Never Her Fault, for We Lived Well Together

I never truly loved my wife, though a hundred times I told her as much within the labyrinth of dreams. She was never at faultwe shared a gentle life together, drifting like two quiet boats on the Thames. She never quarrelled, never nagged, always soft-spoken and kind. But there was a mist where love ought to be, shimmering among the spoons and teacups of our kitchen.

Every night, as I rested my head, thoughts twisted round: I wanted to leave her at last. To find the woman I could someday love. Yet, as I wandered through the crooked streets of dream-London, I wondered: would it ever happen? There was something soothing in being beside Eleanorher skills with the home were impeccable, and her beauty, impossible to ignore, would stop any passerby at Euston in his tracks. My mates envied me even now, unable to make sense of my improbable fortune. And I, in drifting dream logic, never understood why she loved me at all.

An ordinary man I am, as faceless as any in a bustling queue. But her devotionso uncanny, so solidnagged at me. Most of all, her beauty. I knew, should I walk out and break these bonds, a new suitor would spring up, with a crisp accent, a bigger bank account, a sharper suit. Just imagining Eleanor, embraced by another, nearly drove me mad. She was mine, though Id never had true feelings for her, not once. Id married her because it was flattering to be beside such a lovely English girlsimple as that.

But could one truly trudge through life bound to someone unloved? I fancied I could manage, but I was wrong. The dream-dining set shimmered in the background.

Tomorrow, Ill tell her everything, I decided, and at last sleep pulled me under.

In the morning fog, as breakfast tea steamed and toast was buttered, I steeled myself for the hard truth.

Ellie, sit down a moment. I must tell you something, I said, my voice echoing strangely in our Notting Hill flat.

Im listening, darling, she replied, blue eyes impossibly serene.

Imagine this: we split. We go our separate ways, drifting to different corners of London.

She chuckled, the sound strange, as if echoing off porcelain.

What a peculiar scenario! Is this a new sort of game? she smiled.

Please, hear me through. Its important for us both.

All right, Im imagining. Carry on.

Tell me honestly, after I leavewould you find someone new?

George, whats got into you? Why would you ever leave?

Because I dont love you, and I never did.

You must be joking. I just I cant understand

I want to leave, Ellie, but I cant stand the thought of someone else holding you.

Ellie fell into a thoughtful hush, the clatter of the cutlery stilled. After a pause, she spoke: Theres no one better for me, I think. So you neednt worry. You may go, and I wont find anybody else.

You promise?

Of course, she assured me, blonde hair agleam in the morning blur.

But where would I even go? I half-whispered.

Surely theres somewhere for you?

No, weve always just been together. Maybe were meant to grow old here in this house, together, I admitted, sadder than ever.

Dont fret. Once were divorced, well sell this place and buy two small flats. Easy as you like.

Truly? I never expected you to be so helpful. Why?

Because I love you, and when you love someone, you cant force them to stay, she murmured, her voice soft as a drowsy afternoon in Hampstead.

A few months slipped by, surreal as dreams, and the separation came. Within weeks, I learned that Ellie had forgotten her promise; shed found a new man, tall and elegant as a London plane tree. The flat, inherited from her grandmother, stayed stubbornly with hershe had never planned to split it.

I was left with nothinga solitary shadow among the citys millions. How is one meant to trust women after this? I havent the faintest clue

What can be said of George?

This tale drifts from a true story, as shared by a reader. Any echoes with real names or places are but coincidence. All images in this account remain purely imaginary.