My mortar board had barely hit the dust after its post-graduation toss when James and I moved in together in 2018. We had been together for 11 happy months and although my best friend thought we were being impulsive, we just felt ready to make the move.
And at times, it was heaven. Weekends together stretched ahead of us like blank canvases, full of untold promise. There were Sunday mornings spent sipping coffee, reading in bed with him asleep before cooking a lazy breakfast.
We took long countryside walks that ended with lingering pub sessions – the stuff of perfection. Evenings passed in boxset-bliss, gorging on snacks from under the comfort of a cheap fleece blanket with my best friend beside me.
There were only a few small hitches.
Firstly, I had swapped my student digs for a rental that my boyfriend had originally leased with his most significant ex.
I knew that the house would probably contain a few remnants from the ghosts of girlfriends past, but no matter how many belongings I scattered around the house it just never felt like my home.
Then there was the fact that I was unemployed in the styx of Suffolk. My History of Art degree offered limited opportunities in such a rural environment.
My days consisted of endlessly scrolling through fruitless job ads in a monotonous routine, cooped up and feeling generally uninspired.
When James rolled in at 6pm from his job at a local video production company, I would be so irritable that minor domestic disputes would explode unnecessarily into major arguments over, say, what we wanted for dinner.
And we now we had a private stage where we could play out whatever drama we liked, unlike in my student house where any arguments were conducted in hushed tones so as not to disturb my four other housemates.
After a difficult few months, I began to wonder if perhaps we just hadn’t been ready for this after all. The bad began to outweigh the good and we were laughing together less and less. We became bitter, nagging each other until one last fight proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was time for change.
Living alone has always held an appeal to me – I loved the idea of a space to myself and I knew it was something that I wanted to do at some point in my life. Yet I didn’t want our relationship to end.
One night I gently broached the topic of staying together – but me moving out. Initially James was shocked and it wasn’t an easy conversation: we both felt sad at the prospect of separation.
Eventually we reached an agreement, with James concurring that we should try living separately at least temporarily. As hard as it was, we both recognised that in that moment, living together was too volatile and temperamental an arrangement.
In fact, my partner’s understanding only helped to make him love me more. He gave me the space I needed, and showed me maturity and respect for my own well-being that I had not encountered in a relationship before.
After some time to top up my savings from my new sales job, by the end of 2018 I was collecting the keys for a one bedroom rental cottage of my own.
Initially, I was concerned whether people would confuse my relocation for our separation. My mum and sisters assumed we were no longer together while friends thought we may as well just end it.
I also felt guilty that it might appear like a cop out on my part, hiding away from the hard stuff that is part and parcel of every relationship in the comfort of my own territory. But with the gift of hindsight I can see that we were right to make a change. I think we both felt relieved and grateful that we could give ourselves a break.
We took things steady, dedicating a couple of nights a week to each other. Weekends were typically spent at his place, where I could relieve the moments of happiness we’d had before but this time without the pressure of co-habiting.
Soon his toothbrush joined mine on my bathroom sink, and several pairs of boxers found a home in my underwear drawer.
I am still holed up in my little cottage today, and delighted to say that James is as frequent a visitor as am I at his new house – where he also lives alone. We don’t have ‘regular nights’ and there is no weekly routine – we simply act on feelings and stay where we want to.
Although my car imbibes more petrol on a weekly basis than I would care to mention living half an hour away from each other, our set-up works. Brown boxes may crop up again in the future but we’re not in any rush – we’ve let our relationship move at a pace that feels natural for us.
Meet, date, cohabit, marry and procreate is not a one-size-fits-all formula. The pressure of this nuclear trajectory made James and I feel that, as a couple, we were failing when all we needed was to take time to explore a little detour – it was far better than throwing away the map altogether.
I have learned that commitment doesn’t have to mean cohabitation and it is certainly possible to share a relationship without sharing a postcode. I no longer feel like I have to subscribe to a structure that only caters to a steady upward progression, celebrating milestone after milestone.
Breathing space in a relationship is essential, after all, and getting blown off course is often inevitable, but in my experience, love is flexible. It can adapt to many different situations. It is the bond that draws me and James together, and its elasticity has surprised me.
More than anything, it can survive two houses, endlessly packing overnight bags and the extra mileage, just as long as that keeps us happy.
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source https://metro.co.uk/2020/02/01/living-together-almost-wrecked-relationship-now-live-happily-apart-12161184/
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