From the moment we set off on our weekend away, I knew it was over.
I sat next to Boyfriend in his fancy car, wondering when it had actually ended.
During the two-hour trip I think we had three conversations. None of which lasted very long.
We stopped along the way to walk on a beach. It was cold and forlorn and we had nothing to say. The reasons for my extensive unhappiness were ticking over in my mind one by one. My head was so full of the end I couldn’t open my mouth.
We went out to dinner in silence. This was not unusual for us. I wondered if he realised anything was wrong. He suggested a quiet, romantic restaurant; I balked and went into the noisy pub next to it. I pushed my dinner around on my plate, waiting for the moment when we were back at the guesthouse so we could talk in private.
Once we were settled in front of the fireplace in our room, he brought out a wine cooler. Inside it was bottle of red wine. I felt a rush of mixed emotions. Not champagne. Wine.
I opened my mouth and started to tell him why it was over.
I spoke for hours.
We went to sleep.
We got up, spent another few hours talking and crying and I was explaining and apologising and he was hurt and confused and I said that’s the point.
We just don’t understand each other. We just don’t fit. It’s just too hard.
The drive back home was long and distressing and quiet.
I finally dropped him off at his place and drove away, watching as he grew small in the rear view mirror.
It was awful.