Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

She reminds me of me, there’s no easier way to put it, and I suppose I’m drawn to her because nurturing her feels a little bit like nurturing myself.

How unceremonious this all is: a world full of women, alone on toilets, pissing on sticks. Each new life heralded by a piece of urine-soaked plastic.

can hear my therapist’s voice in my head, reminding me to “stay in the observer role,” to stop and notice my feelings instead of being overwhelmed by them. I notice I am feeling anxious.

Theo’s type is what I like to call a Horse Woman. Horse Women are not women who look like horses, but rather women who look like they grew up around horses. They are plain but pretty. They wear very little makeup. They never dye their hair. And they always order salads in restaurants. Horse Women come from money. They vote Conservative. They study at prestigious universities. And then they settle down with a nice Tory boy and throw their

She lets me get it all out, listening as I recount all the times he’s hurt me: the night I wore lingerie for him and he looked at me and sighed like making love to me was a chore;

She already knows all this, not the details, but the broad strokes; the things we think we’re hiding from people, we’re only really hiding from ourselves.

Lovethis quote

My mother asks me now if I think it was all to impress “that tramp”—there is no actual evidence to suggest that Lesley is a tramp, but I appreciate my mother getting on board.

“Crazy is the space between what they tell you and what you know is true.”

She loves me. For no other reason than she does. And there’s something heart-wrenchingly pure about that. There’s no bullshit, no games, no complications; she just felt something, so she said it.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “This doesn’t feel right,” I say. “What doesn’t?” “Us,” I say. “Something’s wrong. We need to talk.”

I’m not sure what it is I liked so much; there was nothing special about today, except that it was perfect.

moment of deciding if you’re still mine. Are you? I can’t tell. This is hell, I think, on a basis more than daily now.

I, on the other hand, become a detective in the midst of an argument, desperately searching for clues as to his feelings or intentions, piecing together every shred of evidence that might prove my current theory; that he’s staying, that he’s going, that he loves me, that he never wants to see me again. There’s a certain amount of confirmation bias at play here, but being aware of that doesn’t stop me.

“I want to talk. I want to fight, and cry, and spend days screaming at one another if we have to. Whatever it takes to sort this out and get back to being us.”

“That doesn’t mean things will be better,” she says, “or worse. They’ll just be different. But you need to accept it will take time.”

“Just be there,” she says. “Unless you don’t want to be, of course. You can leave him tomorrow if you like, push the fuck-it button on the whole sodding relationship, and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces. But if you want to make things right, you’ve got to resist the urge to force a resolution. Stop poking and prodding him and just bloody be there.”

But if you want to make things right, you’ve got to resist the urge to force a resolution.

Chatting to Maya and Darren is familiar and comfortable, like slipping on a set of old pajamas at the end of a long day.

how the only thing that’s certain in life is death. This baby might never watch TV or fall in love, I think, but it will definitely die. It might not even make it out of the womb alive.

Did he actually need more time? Or was he just dragging things out, trying to prolong my suffering?

“Not when you were gone, Theo. When you were gone and I was alone, it made sense. You’re supposed to feel lonely when you’re alone. But I felt lonely when we were together.” He stares at me for a moment, then announces that he’s tired and wants to go to sleep.

“Were you lonely today?” he asks. “No.” “Why?” “Because,” I say, turning over to face him even though I can’t see him, “today we were a team. You let me help. You let me in.” “How is it usually?” he asks.

“It’s usually like you’re right in front of me but I can’t quite reach you. Like there’s an invisible wall in the way.”

“What did you need?” “You,” he says. He sounds frustrated that I didn’t know the answer already. “You could’ve called me,” I say.

“I would have understood,” I say. “I’m here, aren’t I?” “Yeah, I suppose.”

I was fishing for reassurance and I wasn’t getting any. I had wanted Theo to tell me that he missed me too, or that he was just as happy at home as he was in Paris. I couldn’t tell if he wasn’t saying those things out of forgetfulness or because he didn’t want to be dishonest.

could handle the physical distance as long as we were emotionally close and vice versa, but not both at the same time.

don’t like who I am around you sometimes,” he said finally. “Well, I despise the sad, sniveling little appeaser I’ve become around you.”

“I’m just angry with you,” he said dismissively. “No, you’ve got it backward,” I said. “I’m not saying you stopped loving me because of what I did. I’m saying I did it because you stopped loving me.”

don’t know exactly when it happened, Theo. All I know is that it’s true.” My voice sounded weary and resigned. “And for the record, I’m neither calm nor collected. This is just my default mode in a confrontation. But then you’d know that if you ever bothered to fight with me.”

“Of course I don’t want to fight,” I said, “But sometimes things need to be talked about. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if we disagree. Like, I know you’re not happy with our sex life. How could you be? It’s shit. I’m not exactly thrilled about it either. But you never want to discuss it.”

I gestured at the general vicinity of the argument. “This is the most invested you’ve been in our relationship in years.”

think you should go.” “Of course you do. Just when we might actually be getting somewhere.”

“Well,” I said, grabbing my suitcase, “we’ll always have Paris.”

It’s a picture of the whole bridal party, and I’m on the end next to Theo. All the other couples are holding hands or draping arms around one another’s shoulders, but Theo is just standing there with his hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t even know me.

but I insist. I feel like my sadness is contagious and I want to take it as far away from these perfect people as I can.

On the way home I text Theo to ask if we can talk. He replies immediately to say he’s not ready yet, but he’s glad I landed safely. All very polite. All very cold.

I spend the next couple of weeks acutely aware of his absence, wondering if he’s ever coming home, or if I even want him to.

It’s the same feeling you get when the phone rings unexpectedly at four a.m. Only some part of me was expecting this call. Some part of me saw it coming.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl to gush over weddings, but the marriage part—the idea of two flawed people being somehow perfect for one another, the odds of finding another human who can tolerate your specific brand of shit, and whose shit you can tolerate too—I think that’s pretty special.

gazed dotingly at Maya and Darren and were reminded what real love looks like. And I think that’s how a wedding should make you feel—closer and more affectionate.

and I certainly haven’t felt any affection. It’s not that Theo has done anything wrong, exactly, but for a few months now I’ve had the oddest feeling that something is missing, and I can’t quite put my...

This is the moment I know that Theo has fallen out of love with me.

Later, when I look back on this, what I’ll find most moving is how quickly we slip into these roles, how naturally the art of caring comes to us.

I watch Maya sipping her tea and I wonder how many women carry the memory of a child nobody knew but them. How many women grieve alone and in silence, without sympathy or ceremony, too afraid or ashamed to speak of their loss? And why should they feel ashamed, or afraid, or alone? When there are so many others, when this is so common, why isn’t it something we talk about?

I’d rather be loved and loathed in equal measure than for everyone to just tolerate me.

What did you think of her? Yeah, she’s nice. Fuck that.

Lying in bed, I wonder if I miss Theo. We’ve barely spoken this week save for a few perfunctory texts—on

“Oh, well, he’s nice,” I begin, pouring us both more wine. She gestures for me to say more. “He’s very caring, reliable, calm . . .” “Fun?” she asks as we sit down, and I’m surprised by my sudden candor. “He used to be. The past year or so has been kinda shit, to be honest.”

“That’s it!” I say. “It’s the pressure. To feel stuff. That I can’t always feel.”