I love him but I don’t love him but I love him but…
My mind rotates like the wheels of our car, round and round, as I ease off the M11 at South Woodford and head towards Charing Cross. I’ve never driven in London before and I don’t know my way about the city, have no clue where I’m heading. But I’m happy for the distraction.
I don’t love him but I love him but I don’t love him but…
He sits beside me, chatting mindlessly, oblivious to the fact I’ve said nothing since we left. Another reason I’m happy I’m driving: I can’t look at him. If I turned round he would see the confusion, the hesitation etched on my face and he would know something was wrong. He might even ask and I can’t lie, I just can’t. Instead, I stare fixedly at the road, trying to concentrate.
We did have some good times. Times when we laughed so hard tears began to slip from our eyes, times when we wrapped ourselves so tightly around each other that we felt at one, lungs breathing and hearts beating in tandem. But somewhere - God only knows where - we slowly separated, pulled apart by forces we couldn’t name. There was no dramatic fallout, no major arguments. Nothing I could point to, to blame. The good times were simply gone, maybe. Maybe we could stagger back to that happy place, a pair of weary travellers returning after a long, long voyage. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
We sit in the car not talking and not listening. I love him but I don’t. I don’t love him but I do.
I stop at the next junction, unsure of what road to take.
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