Heartbroken in Hampshire
Dear Emily,
Oliver and I began our courtship this past June. At 29, Oliver seems rather commitment-shy, having never maintained a relationship beyond twelve months. I’m 25 and have experienced two significant relationships, including a rather traumatic marriage that ended in divorce just this past May—a relationship I’d rather not dwell on, though the emotional scars remain rather fresh.
What transpired with Oliver over those initial months was nothing short of extraordinary. After merely eight weeks in his company, I came to the stark realisation that my previous notion of love had been entirely misguided. There was something utterly unique about him—something I’d never encountered in another soul. Our connection was so profound it rather frightened me, if I’m being honest. I found myself holding back, protecting my heart behind carefully constructed walls. Oliver, too, seemed to struggle with emotional expression, and given my recent emotional upheaval, perhaps we were both rather gun-shy.
The situation grew more complex when Oliver enrolled in an intensive course beginning in September—a nine-week programme that consumed nearly every moment of his time. Though we maintained our standing Sunday dates (lovely affairs that left me counting the hours until our next meeting), the limited time together began to wear on me considerably. The distance between our meetings felt like an eternity, and I found myself lying awake at night, wondering where we stood.
Seeking some sense of security in our arrangement, I gathered my courage and asked him to make things official—to be my proper boyfriend, as it were. That’s when everything rather fell to pieces. He ended things then and there, explaining that he felt dreadfully guilty about not being able to give me the attention he believed I deserved. He spoke of feeling selfish for “holding onto me” for so long, and suggested we maintain a friendship—a proposition that felt like a twist of the knife, if I’m being perfectly honest.
That evening, in an emotional state, I composed a rather lengthy email. I poured my heart out, confessing how utterly mad I’d been about him, how he’d made me feel truly desirable and beautiful for the first time in ages. I explained that no one had ever captured both my mind and heart so completely. The words flowed like a river, and I found myself admitting that I’d heard him whisper “I love you” several weeks prior—something I’d pretended not to notice at the time. I also made it crystal clear that friendship wasn’t an option, as I couldn’t bear the thought of watching him with someone else.
His response came quickly. He thanked me for my candour and apologised once more, adding: “I suppose I was simply frightened of becoming dependent on anyone other than myself. The prospect of continuing our relationship, knowing it might lead to causing you greater pain, left me feeling terribly guilty and selfish. Regarding the ‘L’ word, while I can’t precisely recall the moment you mentioned, there are countless things about you that I do indeed love. Perhaps it was my subconscious speaking truth—a Freudian slip, as it were. Please take care of yourself.”
The following day, he sent a text message suggesting I deserved a more thorough explanation and proposed meeting for coffee at the weekend. I agreed, and what followed was a three-hour conversation that left me more confused than ever. He revealed that my email had affected him deeply—that no one had ever expressed such profound feelings for him before. Then, in what felt like the same breath, he claimed he couldn’t envision a long-term future for us. Yet, bizarrely, he proceeded to mention his plans to introduce me to his friends and family in New Zealand—a rather significant step for someone who supposedly saw no future. His parting words haunt me still: “I can’t shake the feeling that things may have ended prematurely.”
I find myself at a complete loss. Despite how pathetic it might sound, this brief relationship felt more genuine than any I’ve experienced before. My heart screams to fight for it, to not let it slip away so easily. But perhaps I’m being foolish? I desperately need an objective perspective—should I persist or force myself to move forward?
Yours sincerely,
Heartbroken in Hampshire