Curiosity Killed This Cat

One thing I've barely touched on throughout this series yet: dating.

I've been saving it, I suppose. And, figuring out where to begin.

Let’s start where we left off. It’s late 2023. I’m slap-bang in the middle of my healing era — going to therapy regularly, and just beginning to understand the power of routine, self-discipline, and boundaries. I’ve got some confidence now in how I want to spend my time. I’ve proven to myself that I can carve out parts of the day just for me, and not spiral. The mornings are locked in, but the evenings still feel wide open. If the weather’s nice, I’ll walk around the park. Occasionally, I’ll meet up with friends. But it feels rare. I’ve joined a writing group and I go every weekend. I even dabbled in a creative writing course.

Work-wise, I’m still in TV — though the industry’s in crisis. Commissioning is down, and nothing consistent is coming through. I’ve had to take whatever I can get, which means stepping away from natural history. I’ve just wrapped a six-month contract on a series about faith and religion across the Scottish islands. I liked parts of it, but it’s not why I got into this line of work.

And something big is definitely missing.

I’ve been single since university.

Well, functionally single. Actually single? Hmm... that’s up for debate.

Even though my ex and I had been long distance for the final year of our relationhip, two weeks after he ended things during that glorious summer of 2016 (Alexa, play Closer by the Chainsmokers), I was at the pub with a couple of friends after a long shift at work when I got a simple text:

“Hey Eleanor, how are you doing?”

My brain had already forgotten about the stress I felt throughout that relationship. My spirit felt lighter, I was going out with friends again, meeting new people and partying the summer nights away in fancy houses around town. I was surrounded by new faces and possibilities, but still elated to see his name on my phone. Of course I was. Call it familiarity, or my ego being delighted by the fact that he just couldn't let me go, I was happy to hear from him.

I know you smile when you see their name on your phone, too. Come on.

Without rushing, I responded. I can't remember what I said, but I do remember how I felt. I didn't want him back. I wanted his attention, yes. I wanted his body to be intertwined with mine again, sure. But him? A boyfriend? No. Definitely not.

For a few reasons.

One, I was still scarred by the whole thing. I carved the word commitment onto my pumpkin at Halloween in 2016 because it was the scariest thing I could think of.

Two, I was thriving. Newly single + young = automatically attractive to any young man. So many men I fancied, fancied me back. I was taken on dates, wined, dined and driven around as a passenger princess by boys who had always been off limits to me because of my relationship. They didn't want me for anything more than I wanted them. More often than not, we'd sleep together a few times, then only see each other again through Snapchat exchanges or when we bumped into each other on nights out.

See, I told you I was terrified of commitment, but at least it played out in a super fun way.

Finally, I loved keeping him at arm's length. I loved that I no longer needed him, but still had access to him. It was like having a key to a door I’d locked — I had no intention of walking through it, but I liked knowing I could.

We began chatting again, and a few months after I received that first text, he invited me down to visit him. Of course I went, I was a 22-year-old university student - what else was I doing? Besides, I'd already said no to the boy who invited me to join him on a ski season in Val d'Isère. A weekend trip to Manchester was responsible.

The first night I arrived, we played it coy, staying in the same bed but keeping as much of a physical distance as possible. By the second night, though, that didn’t last long. It was incredible. Of course it was.

I left on the third day, and on my way back to university, in between messages to the girls, I received a text.

“Hey, I think we should talk about what happened.”

I was surprised. My new pattern with boys had been long-established by now. We sleep together, then either message to arrange to do it again or just ignore each other. That worked for everyone.

There was no talking about it. What was there to talk about?

I leant into my natural kindness-meets-avoidant personality, “Aww no, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Okay then.”

Ding.

“I just didn't think you were the type of girl to do that... to sleep with someone casually.”

A smile spread across my face.

To him, I was brand new. It was surprising and shocking.

But that, to me, was extraordinarily powerful.

I went down to see him a few more times throughout the rest of my university years. We phoned each other multiple times a week. More often than not, when I was drunk and on my way home from a night out, box of chips and cheese in hand. It became a comfort call. A distraction too. From the pain I was beginning to feel in my real romantic life. Despite my avoidant best efforts, my feelings were starting to crank up for someone else, and they were not reciprocated. I leant on my ex during that time. Of course, I didn't tell him what was going on, but he was a welcome distraction when I wanted to text someone I knew I shouldn't. Oh, the irony—I know.

I have already mentioned that after graduation, I went to do my Master’s at the University of Salford, a small city on the outskirts of Greater Manchester. Don't you dare say it is part of Manchester, I mean it. He was still studying there, so proximally, we were close again. He took me on a couple of outings, including a welcome dinner, a trip to the cinema and a day trip to the Cotswolds.

“It is not a date,” I would protest to the girls before jumping into the passenger seat of his new VW as we set off to the countryside for a walk and a Sunday roast.

Then one evening he phoned me a couple of times. I had missed both calls by a few of hours because I had been on a date with someone from my course. I didn't want to date this person; I just wanted to maintain some distance between myself and my ex, and this was the only way I could think to do that. The idea of having a conversation about it didn't pop into my head.

I called him back and he picked up immediately, “Hey, I was just wondering if you wanted to see a movie tonight?”

I was tipsy from my date. I felt the need to be honest and the urge to hold myself back, knowing that if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t lose him. But I was pushed forward by my drunk boldness and a knowing it was the right thing to do, so I dropped the grenade, “I was on a date.”

Silence, then, “You were?”

I can't remember the rest of our conversation. Drunk tears and splutters on the tram is all I'm really aware of before a final goodbye.

In the silence that followed the hang-up, I regretted my confession immediately. We had been keeping up this constant stream of communication for more than three years by this point and I have to admit, of course, there were feelings there, not just of friendship and familiarity.

Three months later, at the beginning of 2020, I was doing work experience for a company that live-streamed Sale Sharks Rugby. It was a fabulous opportunity and I loved the fast-paced nature sports TV offered. I had stopped seeing the other guy—we had only been on a few dates before I realised how incompatible we were, go figure. I broke up with him in a Wetherspoons and then told my friends to come meet me. I bought us all a bottle of £4 wine each, which we all proceeded to down before lolling into the nearest Popworld to dance it off.

I was driving back from a game late one Friday night when curiosity (alright, loneliness) got the better of me. I had deleted his number, but still remembered it, I could've dialled it in my sleep. I tapped the numbers, my stomach was a mess - forget butterflies, I had leapfrogs - and hit ring.

For a moment, I felt like I was hanging in mid-air, desperate for him to answer but also terrified about what to say if he did.

No answer. Then a text: “Can I call you later?”

Relieved to still be acknowledged, I replied, “Hey, just checking in, and yeah, that is no problem.”

He phoned me a few hours after I got home and I answered, even though I was shattered. I don’t know what I was expecting — maybe warmth, maybe softness. But instead, he said it plainly: he had a new girlfriend.

“She’s a medic too,” he added, like a casual afterthought. I remember the way it landed, hard and cold. Like a mid-January slap from the weather outside.

I tried to keep my voice steady even though tears pricked my eyes.

I told him things hadn’t worked out with the other guy, not that he asked. He was so far beyond caring. I suddenly realised he was in a room I didn’t recognise — not his.

My stomach dropped at the thought of him being at her house. I didn't have to worry about that, though, because he was at his friend’s house. A group of his boys came in while I was mid-cry and handed him a bag of weed. He turned away from me for a few minutes and engaged in conversation with them. I turned my camera off, silent and hidden like I'd been through our whole relationship.

How was I back here?

He finally turned his attention back to me, a nuisance, and rolled the joint. He lit it, inhaling while transfixing me with a sympathetic gaze. The look of a man who doesn't need you to stroke his ego anymore because someone else is.

I was in pain, but I never wanted him back. I just wanted to know if I could have access to him. And that is honestly what most of the tears were for. Because I couldn't anymore.

You can call me a bad person, but I bet your bottom dollar that is what he wanted too, deep down. Because that's what our whole relationship had been about anyway. About me needing him. These things are so often about control, especially at young and immature ages. It's about feeling in control of ourselves when the world around us is constantly changing, and about exerting power over someone else in order to feel that.

I look back and know we both caused harm in ways that broke a piece of the other person. I was so young, he was too. Together, we were just a couple of early 20-somethings trying our best to fake it at being adults.

I could list the things he did to hurt me, the comments he made and how he made me feel about myself. But if you gave him this platform, I'm sure he'd be able to do the same. So it's best to leave it there and learn how to use what I went through to become better.

A lot of people gasp when I admit it took nearly four years after our breakup for us to finally stop talking. But we were both part of that. And truth be told, the only thing worse than staying for four years is staying for four years and one day.

Okay, now we've got the past out in the open, let's jump forward to 2023...