Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

The more time you’ve spent trying to make it work, the more time you’re willing to keep spending, trying to make it bloody work. I stay because I genuinely believe, if we both try hard enough, we can get back to the way it was before. But—I don’t know, maybe I should just accept that what we had is gone. Maybe it’s more like a building that’s been burned to the ground than some lovely home I could return to and find everything intact and in its place. Maybe I’m not willing to admit to myself that it’s just a pile of fucking ashes.”

“If I had you,” she whispers into my hair, “I wouldn’t share you.”

In the previous ten months or so everything had come together—Theo and I were happily cohabitating and still sickeningly in love,

each blow with just enough force so that I feel it, but to everyone else it passes for a joke.

I suppose in every relationship an assumption is made at some point that you’re in it for the long haul. I’m not sure at what point Theo and I made this assumption,

“But I want you to know how much I love and appreciate you,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I love you so fucking much that . . . it’s not very nice sometimes. It’s horrible, actually. I think about losing you and it’s like someone’s standing on my chest. You could break me. If you wanted to. You could absolutely fucking break me.”

“I am actually an excellent tour guide,” he said, which made me laugh more. “Are you indeed?” “Yes. I’ll prove it to you.” “Oh my God,” I said, suddenly excited, “can we be tourists for a day? And wear those awful ‘I heart London’ T-shirts?” “Yes,” said Theo, but I wasn’t finished . . . “And have afternoon tea? And fish and chips? And take photos where it looks like we’re holding famous landmarks?”

We talk and we laugh and we’re not afraid to be silly or ask for what we want or try new things together.

Sex aside, I’m relishing the little things; chilling on the sofa together after a long day, nipping to the corner shop for bread and milk, ordering pizza when we can’t be bothered to cook, late-night chats after all the lights are out, waking up every day and knowing, without fail, that Theo will be there next to me.

Which might all sound dreadfully mundane to some people, I’m sure, but I’ve been craving this kind of mundanity my whole life: a stable, calm existence that ticks along steadily without much effort. No chaos. No confusion. Just simplicity and ease. Things with Theo are, dare I say, good? I’m happy.

while that feeling brings with it a brand-new kind of anxiety—a sort of foreboding joy, where the very presence of happiness only serves as a reminder tha...

I’d take joy with a splash of fear over fear with a spla...

“Will you be doing this all day or just for the first few stops?” I ask. “All day, I’m afraid.” “Cool.”

“I wish someone would look at me the way you look at cake,” says Theo. “Tough shit,” I say, ramming the whole slice unceremoniously into my mouth. “Wow. That was actually kind of sexy.” I laugh through a face full of sponge.

I’m struggling to recall a birthday I’ve enjoyed more than this, one where I felt so thoroughly taken care of, so considered, so loved.

I’m also riddled with anxiety and plagued by depression, and occasionally I find great comfort in the thought of not existing. Do I get that from her too?

There’s nothing like saying good-bye to a place to make you want to stay.

“That’s okay. Look, all I can really say is thank you for even considering moving here to be with me. And if you don’t like it and you want to go home, I will completely understand. But if you do stay, then I promise I will do everything in my power to make our life here really fucking lovely.”

I can hear the cogs turning in her head as she tries to foresee and resolve all possible problems before they arise—after all, this is what mothers, and anxious people,

“How come you were still here?” I ask finally. “Just thought I’d wait till you took off. In case you changed your mind.”

feel as though a fist has seized my heart. I want to grab her and hold her and never let go. “I’m sorry,” I say, delicately, “but I can’t come home now.”

“Oh!” she says, still laughing. “No, I wasn’t waiting to take you home; I was waiting to make sure you got on the plane.” “What?” She places one soft hand on my cheek and looks knowingly into my eyes. “I know what you’re like, love. You’re prone to getting cold feet, just like me.”

“Oh,” I say, “so, you want me to leave?” “Of course I don’t! I’d keep you here forever if I could. But you have to go.”

We hug again and this time we don’t let go straightaway. We stay for a few minutes, holding one another, as my mother cradles my head in one hand and rubs my back with the other.

“It’ll be okay,” she says into my ear, “everything will be okay.” I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince, but she repeats it over and over again.

I think I like stories because they’re simple and contained. You establish a status quo, create conflict, then resolve it. In life, nothing is ever really resolved.

For better or for worse, I am my mother’s daughter, and her story is my story too. It’s mine to carry, mine to hold—with love if I can manage it—and mine to weave into my own.

“Firstly,” says Theo, “we need to address your sugar habit.” I roll my eyes. I don’t want to have this argument again. “And secondly,” he adds, “I’ve got you covered.” Theo produces four sachets of sugar from his pocket, finishes his half of the tea, and then pours all four of them into the second half. He shakes his head as he hands me the cup. “Enjoy,” he says, and then he settles back into his seat. This is the moment I know that Theo has fallen in love with me.

“How are you today?” “I’m good, thanks.” “Is that true?” she asks, her eyes narrowing on me. “No. It’s just what you say, isn’t it?”

You’re describing the butterfly effect.” “Right!” I say. “Exactly. And I feel like the reason I’m here started with this tiny little thing that if it just hadn’t happened, I’d maybe be fine.”

The trick with mothers and grown-up daughters, I’ve learned, is simply not to spend too much time together.

didn’t sing for a long time after the breakup; in fact, I couldn’t listen to music of any kind—too sad and it made me cry, too happy and it felt wrong somehow—so

And so, my mother pointing out that I was singing again marked a milestone of sorts on my path to healing.

But seeing Zak’s behavior now, with a little time and distance, was like the difference between seeing an elephant in the zoo and turning a corner and bumping into one on the street; I was suddenly and unavoidably aware of the enormity, absurdity, and danger of the situation.

As soon as I removed the pressure of being with Theo, all of my symptoms went away:

But knowing something and believing something are two very different things.

When we’re afraid, in danger, or suffering, logic goes out the window;

The panic, depression, and sickness you felt were all physical manifestations of the suffering and conflict in your mind. Your body was trying to warn you that something was wrong,

“Can you fix me?” I ask finally. “No,” she says, “but you can.” “Nice. Very Karate Kid.” “Do you always deflect difficult emotions with humor?” asks Nadia, deadpan.

“What if you thought you were a banana? Would that make you a banana?” “No,” I say, “I would be a human who thinks she’s a banana.” “Okay, good to know,” says Nadia, like I’ve just given her the answer to a puzzle that’s been bothering her for ages.

“Well, I’m just wondering, if your brain were to tell you all the time, rather loudly and emphatically, that you were a banana, would you be a banana then?” And suddenly it clicks, and I smile and say, “No. Because thinking something doesn’t make it real.” Nadia flashes me a playful smile. Her dimples reappear.

“So until next week, whatever your brain tells you—that you’re useless, that you’re broken, that you’re unfixable—just hear it, acknowledge it, and try to let it pass. You are not broken just because your brain says so.”

What I fail to figure out is that Theo has issues of his own, maybe not as severe as mine, but enough to make him unstable and ill-equipped to cope with life. We are both wounded in our own way and, like a pair of tectonic plates shifting over time, our wounds will gradually grate against one another’s, causing damage at a glacial pace. Neither one of us will notice until it’s too late.

I leave this first session feeling hopeful, and blissfully unaware that Theo and I are playing with a losing hand.

I’ll just give Theo the coat and go, I decide, but then he opens the door and takes one look at me, and that irresistible grin spreads instantly across his face. “My coat!” “Your coat,” I say, handing it to him. “And I suppose it’s nice to see you too,” he says playfully.

“Holy shit, that looks amazing!” Theo told me he was making mash, but given he’s a twenty-three-year-old man, I was expecting the dry, lumpy student equivalent. “You weren’t joking about the mash,” I say. Theo looks up at me, deadpan, and says, “I never joke about potatoes.”

“We can’t be mates!” “We bloody well can!” Theo sounds suddenly very defiant and very English. “If that’s what it takes to keep spending time with you. I’ll be the best goddamn mate you’ve ever had!”

“We are officially a cliché.” I laugh. “Are we?” “Little bit,” I say. “Lying here listening to pretentious vinyls. At least it’s not the Smiths. Then we’d be just like every tacky rom-com couple.”

“Well,” he declares when it’s over, “Summer’s a bitch.” I laugh. “Everyone thinks that at first, but the more you watch it, the more you realize that Tom is in the wrong.”

“I’m serious!” I say, throwing a cushion at him. “Tom is so blinded by who he wants Summer to be that he can’t see who she really is. Watch it again in a few years and I guarantee your perspective will change.” “But the story won’t change.”