The relationships I almost had

I’ve had a few relationships that never quite became relationships. Enough conversation to get attached. Enough interest to imagine something might happen. Enough uncertainty that explaining it to a friend required a lengthy introduction and several disclaimers.

“We’re not together, but…”

That “but” can do a surprising amount of work. It holds the messages, the attraction, the plans and all the reasons those plans haven’t happened. It holds the little things that make you feel there’s something there, even when you can’t quite explain where you stand. And because you’re not officially together, you start wondering whether you’re allowed to be disappointed.

Apparently, I’d become emotionally invested in something with fewer guarantees than a Facebook Marketplace collection.

This isn’t a story about one man. There were two different people, two different connections, and a familiar feeling at the end of both: I’d made room for something that never quite arrived. The details weren’t identical, but there were half-promises, confusing messages and things to look forward to that didn’t turn into much. Enough to keep me interested, without the follow-through that would have allowed us to get somewhere.

One of those almost-relationships involved months of me being understanding. I know people have busy lives. I have a job, two kids, a house and washing that seems to reproduce while I’m at work. I don’t expect someone to be available whenever I fancy seeing them, and I’m quite capable of understanding that life gets in the way.

So I gave things time. I made allowances. There was a plan we’d talked about when we first started dating, something I’d been looking forward to. Eventually, I changed my work schedule so we could make it happen.

Then he cancelled.

That’s the part I keep coming back to. I made a practical change to my life because of something we’d discussed together. Finding time to see someone involves a little more than deciding whether I fancy leaving the couch. There’s work to organise, the kids’ commitments to consider and all the usual household admin. I’d done that because I wanted to see him, and I thought he wanted to see me too.

Of course, people sometimes have to cancel. I’ve had to cancel things myself. But by that point, the disappointment carried the weight of everything that had come before it: the patience, the anticipation, the times I’d thought that once we got this sorted, we might finally get somewhere. After months of understanding, I was left with a rearranged schedule and the uncomfortable feeling that I’d taken our plans more seriously than he had.

With the other connection, there were messages that messed with my head. Contact that could bring feelings back before I’d even worked out what, if anything, had changed. I could be getting on with my life, feeling as though I was moving forward, and then find myself thinking about him again. About whether there was still something there. Whether this time might lead somewhere.

I could spend far too much time trying to work out what a message meant, whether I should reply, whether I was being too guarded or too hopeful. I’d try to reconcile the connection I felt through our conversations with what was actually happening between us. It’s exhausting when liking someone comes with this much interpretation. I wanted to spend time with someone I was attracted to. Somehow, I’d ended up doing unpaid analysis of our correspondence.

Across both experiences, I kept finding myself in that gap between what we talked about and what actually happened. I was trying to be patient, trying not to put pressure on anything, trying to let things develop. But it’s difficult for something to develop when you’re still waiting for the plans to happen.

You don’t need an official anniversary to feel hurt by someone’s lack of follow-through. There doesn’t have to be a title, a toothbrush at their house or a conversation about whether you’re exclusive before your feelings count. If you’ve spent time getting to know someone, made plans with them and allowed yourself to look forward to seeing them, there’s something there to be disappointed about. I think I sometimes used the fact that we weren’t officially together to talk myself out of having a perfectly reasonable reaction. As though disappointment was a privilege reserved for people who’d made it onto each other’s Christmas cards.

And you can miss something that never fully happened. Sometimes you’re letting go of a person; sometimes you’re letting go of all the things you thought you might do together. The plans you’d discussed, the time you were going to spend together, the chance to find out whether the connection could become something more. I wasn’t planning a wedding because someone sent me a nice message. But I was allowing myself to believe that things we’d talked about might actually happen. There’s a particular sadness in realising you’ve been looking forward to something the other person hasn’t made the same effort to bring about.

That’s why changing my work schedule and then being cancelled on hurt as much as it did. I’d organised my real life around it. When it fell through, I was left with both the disappointment and the feeling that I’d somehow embarrassed myself by taking it seriously. But what was embarrassing about believing a plan we’d made together? Why was I the one feeling foolish for following through?

I don’t know what either of them intended. I can’t tell you how sincere every message was, or what they thought would happen next. I can tell you how it felt to be on the receiving end. I felt hopeful, then confused. Understanding, then disappointed. A message could bring back feelings I’d been trying to settle, and suddenly I’d be reconsidering something I thought I was beginning to leave behind. I’d wonder whether this was a fresh start, whether things might be different, whether I should give it another chance. Eventually, I grew tired of how much thought I was giving to connections that still left me unsure where I stood.

Having that experience with two different people made me stop and look at how long I was willing to stay in that uncertainty. It didn’t make their behaviour my fault, but it did make me question the allowances I kept making. I was so concerned with being fair to their circumstances that I wasn’t always fair to myself. I could understand someone being busy, someone needing time, someone having other things going on. What I struggled to do was say: I understand all of that, and this is still hurting me. I’m still allowed to want more than another conversation about something that never happens.

For a while, I thought another message or another opportunity might settle things. Eventually, I had to ask myself a less comfortable question: if either connection picked up again and everything carried on exactly as it had before, would I actually want that? When I thought about the waiting, the uncertainty and the disappointment, my answer was no. I’d been holding on to the hope that things would change, and that hope had kept me involved longer than the experience itself deserved.

I don’t regret liking them, and I don’t want to become embarrassed about being hopeful. There’s enough awkwardness in dating without having to pretend you never cared whenever something falls apart. But I wish I’d given my own disappointment the same consideration I gave their explanations. My time mattered. So did the effort it took to make myself available, and the feelings that came with looking forward to someone. I didn’t need to prove that either of them was a terrible person before deciding that what was happening wasn’t enough for me.

I still want to meet someone. I still like flirting, chemistry and the excitement of getting to know a person. I don’t want to approach every new connection with a clipboard and a cancellation policy, although after changing my work schedule, a small deposit did briefly seem reasonable.

What I do want is to pay more attention to what happens after the messages. Does the plan happen? If it falls through, is there a real effort to make another one? Am I enjoying getting to know this person, or spending most of my time trying to work out where I stand? Those are questions I want to feel comfortable asking, without worrying that wanting to see someone somehow makes me demanding.

I can be understanding. I can make an effort. I can make room in a busy life for someone I want to see. I’d just quite like to find someone who makes room for me too.

Preferably before I change another shift.