We Need to Part Ways

Harriet and Oliver first met during a quantumphysics lecture at Oxford. It sounds dull, but amid equations about multiple universes I discovered a kindred spirit.

He sat a few rows behind me, and I felt his warm, curious gaze. When the class ended, Oliver approached, stumbling over his words.

Excuse me, I missed the previous lecture, he said. You seem to be taking diligent notes, and your handwriting is excellent. Could I borrow your notebook for a couple of days?

Sure thing, I replied. Im Harriet, by the way. Shall we be on a firstname basis? Oliver, right?

He nodded, and before I knew it we were caught up in conversation.

We drifted to the college café, sipping coffee as if wed known each other for a century. We talked about books, professors, the absurdity of existence, and how December smells like autumn. Oliver turned out to be someone whose company was enjoyable both in chatter and in comfortable silence; his quiet filled the gaps better than any words could. From day one he became my best friend.

Three months later, he stood beneath my window with a modest bunch of tulips and asked me to marry him. I said yes.

It felt like the most logical thing in the world. Everyone around us declared, Youre made for each other! and we believed them. We fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw. The only thing we missed was the sparkthe reckless, electrifying passion that makes the blood race and the breath catch.

Our wedding night was sweet. We laughed, knocked over champagne, talked until dawn, then fell asleep arminarm like two exhausted children. Yet, for the first time, a cold sting of anxiety crept in. It was as if I were hugging the most wonderful person on earth but felt none of the shiver that love stories promise.

We lived peacefully: cooking together, going to the cinema, reading aloud to each other. It was warm, cosy and safe, like wearing the comfiest pair of slippers. One day my friend Lucy watched us and sighed, Youre like an old married couple whove been together thirty years. Her tone held pity, not admiration. That remark settled on fertile ground. I began to feel I was sinking into a quiet swamp, catching myself staring at strangers on the tubenot because they were better than Oliver, but because they looked at me in a wholly different way.

The moment of truth arrived six months later. We were in the kitchen, Oliver beaming as he explained a new scientific paper. I stared at his kind, intelligent face and suddenly a chilling wave of absolute clarity washed over me: I dont love this man the way I should love a partner.

It wasnt hatred or irritation, just the bitter realisation that we had mistaken the strongest possible friendship for love. That night I lay awake, feeling monstrous, wondering how I could hurt the person I cared for most. The thought of condemning us both to a loveless life was even more terrifying.

The next morning, while Oliver hummed while brewing coffee, I confessed, keeping my eyes on the table because I could not meet his.

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

He froze, coffee pot in hand.

What what do you mean? his voice trembled.

I mean were not husband and wife. Were friendsvery close friends. By putting rings on our hands we have killed that friendship.

Oliver set the pot down, sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. My heart ripped apart. I wanted to hug him, to take back my words, but I knew that would be another cruelty.

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

Nothing, I snapped, my voice cracking. You were perfect. Youre the best person in my life. But theres no fire between us, Oliver. Theres only a steady, reliable light. At twentythree I need a flame. I dont want you to spend your whole life glowing quietly for someone who cant appreciate it.

We divorced quickly. The day was bright and sunny, the weather splendid. Oliver looked pale and lost, his sorrow hidden deep inside, making it even harder for me.

Lets not lose touch, I said, fighting tears. Please, youre still my best friend.

He stared at me, pain radiating from his eyes, and I regretted my words. Oliver could not even imagine a friendship at that moment.

I dont know, Harriet, he admitted honestly. I need time.

He left, and I stood alone, feeling as though I had just shattered the best relationship Id ever had. Yet, beneath the guilt and regret, a tiny ember of hope glimmered hope that one day we might laugh together again, simply as friends.

***

When the ache faded, Oliver realised I had been right. Turning our relationship into a romance had been a mistake. Over time the resentment dissolved and we began speaking again. He never tried to win me back, never made me feel uneasy, never mentioned our brief marriage, and didnt get jealous even when other admirers showed interest. Instead, he became my confidante.

Whenever I felt down, I could ring him or drop by to vent after a breakup. In his own love life things were uneven. Oliver was attractive, educated and charming, yet each new courtship fizzled out for the same missing piece. He still cared for me, doing everything he could to stay in my world, but I recognised that only much later.

Three years later, on holiday, a man from Sheffield charmed me. We spent two wonderful weeks together and, before parting, he suddenly proposed. I said yes. Oliver learned the news from my brother William and was so devastated that he declined my request to meet before I left.

No, Harriet, Im swamped, he replied curtly.

At the train station William told me that Oliver had secretly hoped to win me back one day, and now my quick marriage and move to another city dashed those hopes. Now your ex will finally have to throw away that unrequited love, he laughed.

My husband also believes that friendships between men and women are impossible, and I quickly grew nostalgic for Oliver. At first guilt gnawed at me I hadnt seen his feelings, Id been selfish. Then I realised I missed our conversations, the trials wed endured together, and that no one else knew me as well as he did. In short, I never had a better friend than Oliver.

Three years later I called him, inviting him to my sons christening. He was so taken aback that he accepted without question. I met him on the platform alone.

You havent changed a bit, I said.

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

Youve grown up a little, become more serious.

I havent slept at all Ive been nervous all day

Im sorry I left without really talking, I whispered. I was scared and didnt know how to say it.

He looked at me, his eyes softening, and I saw the relief I felt.

Its alright. I was angry like a schoolboy, he exhaled, the tension finally leaving him. All these years I suffered, when we could have just spoken kindly and remained friends.

An hour later we were at his home, where Oliver met my husband and our lively son. Three days passed in a blur. Oliver liked my husbands straightforward nature, and we reminisced about everything except the period before my departure. He never asked if I was happy; he saw it in my calm eyes, in the way I spoke of my husband, in my contented motherly demeanor. That happiness didnt wound him; it warmed him.

I hope youll visit my family again soon, Oliver said as he left, his words genuine and free of pretense. The ghost of my unrequited love finally rested.

I smiled, my eyes sparkling.

Definitely. First, find the right one, and well both enjoy being friendly families.

We embraced, a firm, friendly hug, free of old pain. Oliver boarded his carriage, waved through the window, and settled into his seat. The train rolled away.

Oliver watched the city lights recede, feeling no heaviness. Instead, a strange new sensation washed over him lightness.

In the end, we learned that love is not a single, fixed form; it can be fierce fire or steady glow, and both have their place. True friendship, when honoured, can survive the fiercest storms and blossom anew, reminding us that honesty and respect are the brightest guides in any relationship.