15 years ago, on the August bank holiday, I met a guy at Bristol Temple Meads for the first time. It wasn’t just any guy. It was the guy who I’d arranged to meet for a not-a-date, date. Despite myself I fell for this guy. He was, still is, intelligent, witty, geeky, very caring, a bit derpy and extremely loyal. One month later when my mother died, he was immediately on a train to comfort me not half an hour after.
There were ups and downs, which is all par the course when it comes to any romantic relationship. There have been a few blow ups, loads of moments of hysterical laughter, many shared irritations due to other people, financial stresses, pregnancy issues, cat bereavements, and so much more shared history between us. The last few months, since I told him that I’m trans, things have been noticeably strained. His mental health issues have resurfaced and whilst I know work issues have not helped I’m the real cause of his anxiety and distress. We have previously said that we don’t know what the future holds but that we’d be friends. Honestly though we’ve been burying our heads in the sand about everything.
Today, in another out of the blue moment when one of us has built up sufficient mental courage to say something, there was The Talk.
We’ve decided that being a couple is no longer a suitable situation. I don’t want to be restricting what someone wants to do with their life, and I don’t want to be the cause for someone else’s pain. He feels the same. He is incredibly supportive of my transition, but he’s straight, and I’m asexual.
We are going to remain friends, best friends. How and who we tell about this I don’t know yet. But this is the first time in a long time that I can call myself single.
I’m not sure if I like it.