Fabricated love destroyed my life. Now I don’t know how to carry on.
Everything went wrong…
Sometimes I close my eyes and drift back to my school days in Sheffield. I used to count down to graduation, dreaming of moving to London—not just for the city, but to be with my sweetheart, Oliver. He’d left earlier to study medicine at university there, and we’d been together since secondary school. Everything felt bright, real, eternal.
When I passed my A-levels and got into a London uni, I moved in with him straight away. Our tiny rented flat became a proper home. We cooked together, crammed for exams, pinched every penny, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Often, we went to bed hungry because we couldn’t afford food. But I didn’t care—I had him. I swore it was real love. And he’d whisper before bed that I was his everything, his destiny.
Things grew more serious with time. We talked about marriage, kids, a future. I secretly browsed wedding dresses, imagining our big day—white roses, a silk veil, Mum and Dad crying happy tears. Both families assumed we’d tie the knot after graduation—four years together, inseparable.
Then, one day, it all collapsed.
On a weekend when Oliver was buried in revision, my new uni mate, Emily, invited me to her uncle’s country house near York. His 40th birthday. She’d raved about him—successful businessman, lived in Dubai, always brought lavish gifts. I thought it’d be a harmless break. I didn’t know it would end my old life.
Thomas was magnetic. Sharp, charismatic, commanding. His stories were wilder than anything I’d heard. I hung on his every word, every glance. When he asked if I had a boyfriend, I—for some reason—lied. Said I’d just split up, that it was messy. His eyes lit up. That’s how our secret affair began. I told myself it was just a fling. But I fell hard. He was older, worldly, intoxicating. When he offered to take me to Dubai, I said yes. It felt like a fairy tale. I didn’t even speak to Oliver. While he was in lectures, I packed my things and left a note: *Sorry. It’s over. We’re on different paths now.*
In Dubai, I dropped out of uni, took odd jobs—cleaning, waitressing—just to stay near Thomas. He demanded perfection. Breakfast at 7 sharp. Dinner *just* how he liked it. If I wore a plain dress, he’d scoff. If I gained or lost weight, he’d snap. And when he snapped, he changed. Screamed insults. Once, he locked me inside until I squeezed into his favourite dress. I stayed quiet—ashamed, terrified. But after every storm came tenderness. He’d be sweet again, and I’d believe it was love. Now I know: it was addiction. Weakness. Sickness.
At 45, he decided he wanted a son. “Alexander,” he said—after his grandfather. If I gave him that, he’d be happy. But it never happened. Two years passed. When I suggested seeing a doctor, he exploded. The next day, he threw my bags outside and told me to vanish forever.
Tears, fear, loneliness—it crushed me. I came back to England. Worked as a shop assistant, cared for Mum after her stroke. Thought it couldn’t get worse. Then, one day, pain doubled me over. The hospital gave me painkillers, but the doctor ordered tests. When I went back, I nearly collapsed. The specialist was… Oliver.
He didn’t let on he knew me. Just clinical: scans, bloodwork, ultrasound. Polite. Professional. Then, briskly, he said it might be gynaecological—more tests needed. A week later, he dropped it casually: *“I’m married now. A colleague. We’ve a four-year-old girl.”* The ache inside wasn’t jealousy—it was guilt. Then, a reckless urge. I tried to kiss him. He stepped back gently. *“That’s over. I’m your doctor. I have a family. Don’t forget that.”*
That severed the last thread to my past. But the worst came after. He confirmed what Thomas never knew—I’m infertile. No children. Ever.
I’ve lost it all: love, future, health, dreams. Once, I just wanted a white dress, a home, a happy family. Now, all I can do is hope life has *something* good left for me. That it’s not over yet. That I might still learn—somehow—to be happy. Even a little.