Hard Choices
Im still at the office, the light burning long after the sun has set. Back home Nell sits at the kitchen table, staring at the cold curry that was meant for dinner. The scent of roasted chicken and rosemary lingers faintly, mixing with the waxy perfume of the candle she lit two hours ago the wax now dripping in uneven beads, like silent tears. The television drones on about the weather, but I cant hear it. Instead Im listening to the groan of the lift in the block and the soft footfalls on the landing is that him?
The door wont open.
She could ring the bell, ask Where are you? or Im worried, but why? He always answers the same way: a clipped Soon or an irritated Dont bother me. Then hell stroll in, stare at his phone, and the heavy silence will hang between us, as if we were two people standing alone together.
Weve been sharing this flat for five years.
Yesterday Katie, my mate, sent a picture of her sons christening. Smiles everywhere, a lovely dress, her husband holding the baby. Today another snapshot of our mutual friends wedding popped up on the feed.
When will you two tie the knot? they asked.
Were not in a rush, Andrew said with a wave.
But Nells patience with the endless not in a rush is wearing thin.
Do you actually want to marry me? she asked, the question catching me off guard as I just peeled off my jacket and reached for a can of ale from the fridge. My hand froze halfway.
Of course I do, I replied, though my voice sounded muffled, as if the words were stuck in my throat. Its just not the right moment to bring it up.
When will be the right moment? she said, picking up a fork as though shed never held one before. When you buy a flat? When you get a promotion? Or when were both pushing forty?
I turned away, searching for redemption in the label on the bottle.
Dont get worked up, alright? Im tired.
Im tired too, she whispered.
He was already heading for the shower, leaving behind a silence as thick as fog, the kind that has swallowed us whole for years.
I grew up watching families fall apart. I remember my father before the drinking started funny, strong, tossing me up to the ceiling when I was five. And after the bottles took over hollow eyes, the permanent smell of whisky, throwing plates at my mother.
Better no father than a father like that, I once blurted to a friend.
That was the moment I swore: if I ever started a family, it would have to be nothing like that. Only when I was sure I wouldnt repeat the mistake.
But confidence never came.
Nell is the opposite of my mother calm, patient, never prone to hysterics. Yet every time she cautiously brings up marriage, I catch myself thinking:
What if Im wrong? What if the monster inside me wakes up?
I see my fists clenching after a hard day just like dads. I feel irritation bubbling when Nell asks for anything. Though Ive never raised a hand or raised my voice, the fear lives deep down:
What if this is only the beginning?
One night, after a particularly brutal argument, she asked straight out:
Are you afraid youll end up like your dad?
I wont be like him, I snapped.
Then whats the problem?
Its that Im not sure I can be good enough to replace him.
She fell silent, then took my hand.
No one expects perfection. I just want you to try.
But for me, trying meant risking the ruin of yet another life. That fear outweighed even love.
I need to get on my feet first, I said, stepping out of the shower, towel draped over my shoulders, eyes heavy after a twelvehour shift. I want everything to be perfect for us.
Nell sat at the table, waiting. In her gaze I read a mix of understanding and weary disappointment this conversation had been rehearsed a hundred times.
What does perfect look like to you? she asked, her tone free of accusation, only genuine curiosity.
I froze. Id said the word so often without ever pausing to define it. In my mind floated images of a spacious flat in the city centre (even though we already rented a cosy twobedroom near the tube), a brandnew German car (while my battered Ford Focus had served me faithfully for five years), a senior managers salary (though I already earned three times the London average).
I didnt answer. I realised then that my idea of perfection was as empty as a glossy billboard shiny on the outside, hollow inside. I was waiting for some magical moment when the stars aligned, the finances doubled, and I would magically become the ideal husband, father, provider.
Nell watched the flicker of emotions cross my face. She knew this trait of mine the ability to trap myself in unrealistic expectations.
You know, she finally said, choosing her words carefully, the perfect moment will never arrive. We can be happy right now, just as we are.
I looked around our flat the bookshelves wed built together, photos from our trips, the cat curled up on the armchair. For the first time I wondered if perfect was less about circumstances and more about the two of us. Yet the dread of stepping into the unknown kept my mouth shut.
I reached for the remote, switched the TV off, and picked up my phone, signalling the end of the talk.
I love Nell.
I love the way she giggles at my terrible jokes over breakfast. I love how she mutters in her sleep when I tug the blanket over her. I love the trail of halffilled tea cups she leaves around the flat each one makes me smile.
But I also love the silence. The quiet that descends when she spends the weekend at her parents house. I love my own habits tossing socks wherever, not turning on the lights, staying up playing video games until three in the morning, spontaneously joining the lads for a weekend fishing trip without a second thought.
Why do we need a stamp in the marriage register? I ask sometimes, pulling her into a hug while she washes the dishes. Were already together. Isnt that enough?
Nell wants more. Not a diamond ring or a lavish banquet, but something almost intangible yet vital the feeling of choice. That every morning she knows Ive decided, consciously, to be with her, not out of habit, not because it just happened, but because I truly want to.
The stamp isnt about obligation, she says, looking straight into my eyes. Its about choosing this life out of all the possible ones. Choosing us.
I look away. Id already chosen her long ago, but the word forever still frightens me with its finality. As if signing the register would bury the carefree boy who could vanish at a moments notice.
What if we get divorced? the question burst out, as though Id been carrying it for ages and it finally slipped out. I stood by the window, back to Nell, watching the evening cityscape, but my mind painted different pictures solicitor fees, splitting assets, empty rooms.
What? Nell froze.
Well its expensive. Mortgage, alimony I listed it like a business plan, not a possible end. You know how my colleague ended up half a flat gone, still paying for the child
Nell rose slowly, a bitter, almost soundless laugh escaping her a sigh of a ship sinking.
Youve already run through the divorce scenario, yet youre scared to get married, she said, her voice lacking anger, only tired understanding. The funny thing is, youre more afraid of divorce than of losing each other now. Divorce is numbers, paperwork, clear losses. Losing love thats something abstract for you, isnt it?
I turned, bewildered. I hadnt expected that reaction. Id braced for a fight, tears, a cold silence, but not this stark clarity.
I just I began, but the words stuck. What could I say? That I was trying to protect us? That I was planning for every eventuality? It would sound like an excuse, and we both knew it.
Nell stepped closer, stopping at arms length. Her face was calm, but a new resolve shone in her eyes.
If youre already thinking about how well split, she whispered, then were already split, just not on paper yet.
She turned and left the room, leaving me alone with my calculations, my fears, and a sudden realisation: all my attempts to futureproof could be destroying the present.
The ending
We broke up on one of those unremarkable weekdays when nothing seems to change. No shouting, no shattered plates just Nell arriving home an hour early, quietly gathering her things. I caught her as I walked in.
Are you going? I asked, frozen in the doorway.
She neatly folded the sweaters Id always loved into her suitcase, each movement deliberate, as if this decision had been rehearsed for weeks.
Yes, she replied, eyes unchanged. Ive rented a flat in the city centre.
The floor seemed to drop from under me. Id imagined this moment a hundred times, yet I wasnt ready not at all.
We could, I started, but she cut me off:
No, Andrew. We cant. I gave us a month after that conversation. You never even tried.
She snapped the suitcase shut, the click louder than the door that soon followed.
Nell didnt leave because she stopped loving me. Love, strange as it is, doesnt vanish in an instant. She left because she finally understood that my fear of commitment outweighed my love. I wasnt scared of marriage itself I was scared to make a conscious choice, to say yes not only to her but to the life that would follow.
I never expected a lifetime promise, she said at the door. All I asked was for you to choose us now. You never did.
I was left alone in an apartment that suddenly felt too big, the freedom suddenly deafening. My phone displayed her number, already dialled and erased five times.
I was free. Completely free. Free to drive to the coast with the lads, to stay late at work, to leave socks wherever. Yet that very first night I lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling, remembering how Nell muttered in her sleep when I tugged the blanket.
I never figured out what was scarier losing her or losing myself. Now, with her gone, I realised perhaps the real me was the bloke who laughed at her jokes over toast. The free Andrew I clung to was just a boy hiding from life behind a list of excuses.
Morning came, and on the kitchen counter sat her favourite teacup, halffilled with cold tea. I washed it mechanically, put it away, and only then realised there would be no more cups left halffull all over the flat.
