For the purposes of continuity (and because I have no doubt I will have to refer to multiple exes in discussing certain things), the ex I refer to in this post is Cricket Boy.
Cricket Boy and I met around 2013, when we started working in the same place. We probably got together because after everything that I had been through in Scotland, and after several incredibly poor attempts at dating (a.k.a. Mr Bad Decision, Stalker Barry), he paid me attention consistently and seemed less likely to fuck me over.
That is, of course, a Very Bad Reason to be with someone. We lasted three years, before it became clear to me that the relationship wouldn’t ever really become anything.
He wanted to stay in his small town. I wanted London.
He wanted cricket, and beer. I wanted Krav Maga and brunch.
At its most simple, I think that’s all I probably need to say.Someone asked me today whether I was heartbroken when we split up after three years. I said I wasn’t, and I stand by that. But I realised that it made me sound heartless. I do a lot of things that make me seem more dispassionate than I really am. I was sad that it was over… but I don’t think it was the wrong decision.