It’s Time for Us to Break Up

I meet James at a quantumphysics lecture in Cambridge. It sounds dull, but among the equations about parallel universes I spot a kindred spirit.

He sits behind me, and I feel his gazewarm, curious. After the lecture, James approaches, stammers a little and says:

Excuse me, I missed the previous lecture. I see youre taking diligent notes; your handwriting is superb. Could I borrow your notebook for a couple of days?

No problem. Im Emily, by the way. Shall we be on firstname terms? James, right?

He nods silently, unaware that Im already weaving our conversation.

We drift to the refectory, share a coffee, and chat as if weve known each other a century. We talk about books, professors, the absurdity of existence, and how December smells like autumn. James proves to be someone I enjoy both talking to and sitting in silence with; the quiet feels richer than any words. He becomes my best friend from day one.

Three months later, standing under my flats window with a bouquet of delicate tulips, he proposes. I say yes.

Everyone around us declares, Youre made for each other! and we believe it. We fit together like two halves of a puzzle, but we overlook one thingtheres no spark, no exhilarating rush that makes the heart race.

Our wedding night is sweet. We laugh, spill champagne, talk until dawn, then fall asleep in each others arms like two exhausted children. Yet, for the first time, a cold knot of anxiety pricks me. It feels as if Ive hugged the worlds best person without feeling the electric tremor described in novels.

We live peacefully: cooking together, going to the cinema, reading books aloud to each other. Its warm, cosy and safelike slipping into the comfiest pair of slippers. One day my friend Lucy watches us and sighs:

Youre like an old couple whove been together for thirty years.

Her tone carries pity, not admiration. The comment settles into fertile ground. I start to realise Im sinking into a quiet marsh, and I catch myself staring at strangers on the undergroundnot because theyre better than James, but because they look at me completely differently.

The moment of truth arrives six months later. We sit in the kitchen; James, beaming, describes a new scientific paper. I watch his kind, bright face, his eager eyes, and a wave of chilling clarity washes over me: I dont love this man the way Im supposed to love a partner.

It isnt hate or irritation; its the bitter realisation that we mistook the strongest friendship for romance.

That night I cant sleep. I lie beside James, stare at his face, and feel monstrous. How can I hurt the person I cherish most? Even worse, I fear condemning us both to a loveless life.

In the morning, as he brews coffee and hums to himself, I confess, keeping my eyes glued to the table:

James, I cant go on like this. I dont love you. Im sorry, it was a mistake.

He freezes, coffee pot in hand.

What what do you mean? his voice trembles.

I mean were not husband and wife. Were friendsvery close friends. And weve killed that friendship by putting a wedding ring on it.

James puts the pot down, sits, and hides his face in his hands. His shoulders shake. My heart tears apart. I want to hug him, take my words back, but I know I cantthat would be even crueller.

Why? he finally exhales. What did I do wrong?

Nothing! I burst, voice cracking. Youve been perfect. Youre the best person in my life. But theres no passion, James. No fire, only a steady, reliable light. Im twentythree; I want fire. I dont want you to spend your whole life glowing softly for someone who cant appreciate it.

We process the divorce quickly. The sun shines brightly that day, the weather is splendid. James looks pale and lost. He keeps everything inside, and that only makes me feel worse. Its clear who the villain is.

Lets not lose contact, please, I say, fighting tears. Youre my best friend.

He looks at me, his eyes full of a deep pain that makes me regret my words. James cant even imagine the friendship weve had.

I dont know, Emily, he answers honestly. I need time.

James walks away, and I stand alone, feeling as if Ive just demolished the best relationship in my life with my own hands. Yet, deep beneath the guilt and regret, a tiny ember of hope flickersthat one day we might laugh together again, as friends.

When the pain eases, James realises I was right. We shouldnt have turned our friendship into a romance. After a while, the resentment fades and we start talking again. He never tries to win me back, never makes me feel uncomfortable. He doesnt bring up the marriage, never gets jealous even when other suitors appear. Instead, he becomes my confidante.

Whenever I feel down, I can ring him or drop by to sob after a breakup. In his own love life, James isnt doing great. He attracts womenyoung, educated, handsomebut each new encounter fizzles out because something is missing.

Of course he still loves me and does everything to stay in my world, but I only realise that later.

Three years later, on holiday, I meet a man from Manchester. We spend two wonderful weeks together, and before parting he suddenly proposes. I say yes.

James learns the news from my brother, Mark. Hes so crushed that he refuses to meet me before I leave:

No, Emily, sorry, Ive got too much work, he replies curtly to my invitation for a coffee.

At the train station, Mark tells me James has been secretly hoping to win me back, but now Im marrying someone else and moving to a new city.

Now your ex will finally have to toss this unrequited love out of his head, sis, Mark says as we part.

My husband also believes that men and women cant be platonic friends. I quickly miss James. At first I feel guilty for not noticing his feelings, thinking I was selfish. Then I realise I miss our conversations, the person whos been through every trial with me, who knows me best. In short, Ive never had a better friend than James.

I call him after three years and invite him over for my sons christening. Hes so caught off guard that he agrees instantly without a question.

I meet him alone on the platform.

You havent changed a bit, I say.

Its not true, but it feels nice, he replies.

Youve grown up a little, become more serious.

Not at all, Ive been up all night worrying

Im sorry I left without really talking, I whisper. I didnt know how to say it. I was scared. It was hard to part from you.

He looks at me, surprise softening into relief.

Its alright. I was angry like a schoolboy, he sighs, and the last tension leaves him. All these years Ive been suffering, and we should have just talked it out and stayed friends.

An hour later theyre both at home, where James meets my husband, John, and our lively son.

Three days fly by.

James gets along famously with the rougharoundtheedges oilrig worker Thomas, and my family reminisces about everything except the events that led to my departure. He doesnt ask if Im happy; he sees it in my calm eyes, in the way I speak about John, in my motherly serenity. That happiness doesnt wound him; it warms him.

I hope youll visit my family again soon, James says as he departs, his words sincere, free of any pretense. The ghost of unrequited love finally dies.

I smile, my eyes shining.

Definitely. First, find that perfect match. Then well be charming families together.

We hug goodbyefirm, friendly, without a hint of old pain. James boards his carriage, waves out the window, and settles into his seat.

The train pulls away.

James watches the city lights recede and no longer feels the familiar heaviness. Instead a strange, new sensation settles ina lightness.