We were best friends

We were best friends for three years. Were each other's most trusted person through shitty relationships, us both having depression, and all kinds of other crap. We spent most waking hours together. When I got dumped by my emotionally abusive ex boyfriend, he cooked for me, he let me stay on his sofa because I couldn't sleep alone, he held me while I cried. When his relationship went sideways (for many reasons that aren't mine to tell), I did the same. All my friends made fun, said we were meant to each other, that we were more than friends - but it wasn't like that. It was a pure friendship born of mutual support, common interest, and making each other laugh. I've never laughed with anyone as much as with him. I felt lucky to have a friendship so, so special that no one else could understand the depth of our connection. We were each other's mirror image.

After uni, we both went to do master's somewhere else. I finished mine, he took a break halfway through. Lived with a friend of his, wasn't doing anything, couldn't do anything. Emotionally, we were basically in a relationship. I went up to see him every two weeks to see him. He was miserable, he hated himself, he missed his ex.

He came to see me, spent time with my housemate, came to events. We used to walk across London on sunny weekend days, stopping to see museums and eat at random pubs and restaurants. Nothing 'romantic' every happened, but it felt more real than any 'relationship' I'd ever had.

Over the summer, I invited him to stay with me and my parents, at our house back home. It was my late grandfather's, and we spent the summer cleaning it out so we could live in it. He spent ten days with my family. My parents loved him. My aunts and uncles loved him. He seemed better: he had a purpose, he was needed. In that August sunshine, things suddenly changed.

He told me one night, in his bedroom (my parents had "casually" asked if we needed to make up the spare bed, to which I'd replied yes), he said he felt confused. That it felt like he was here as my boyfriend, that maybe he had feelings for me. For the last year, it wasn't that I'd wanted "more", I'd just wanted something different. Being friends didn't hurt, it didn't feel like "less"; but it was becoming hard to ignore that maybe I felt something else for him.

One thing led to another, and dot, dot, dot...from then, we spent a long time talking about what this meant: I was ready, I'd thought about it. For him, it was new. I was very clear: once he left this sunny little bubble, he needed to think about what he wanted. Was he over his ex? Did he want a relationship with me? I wasn't willing to endanger our friendship over his needing to rebound with someone he trusted.

He took some time. He thought about it. He spoke to his friends, to his therapist, to my friends, and decided yes. He wanted to be with me. It was perfect. My friends heaved a sigh of relief and said "I told you so" with big smiles and laughing eyes.

Come September, I didn't know where I was living, I didn't have a job, he was going back to school. He asked me to move in with him. I knew if I said yes, that was it. I meant it. Again, I told him it was fast. That he should think about it, that this wasn't a decision you could undo once it was made. He thought about it. He spoke to his friends, to his therapist, to my friends. He committed.

Three months into our one-year lease, he broke up with me. He wasn't over his ex. He still loved her, he'd never been in love with me, he'd made a mistake. I didn't believe it for the first 45 minutes, I thought it was a reckless joke.

Then, I was devastated. We lived together for nine months after that, until the lease ended. I helped him get his degree. I supported him. He slept on the sofa. I got a job.

He moved to the other end of the planet on a whim, for a gruelling job that makes him miserable. His ex girlfriend had a new boyfriend, so they didn't get back together. I now live alone. We're still in touch. I oscillate between anger, misery, and joy that he's not there to act like the teenage son I don't have.

I still tell couples that are thinking about moving in together that if they both truly want to, they should do it. Those three months were the most fulfilling of my life. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

But God, I wish I'd let out all the cruel thoughts and feelings I had during those nine months. I didn't let myself get angry enough. So, my advice: get angry.