**Diary Entry: A Night of Realisations**
“Alright, love, Ive got to dashthe lads are waiting for me! No time to lose! See you later!”
With those words, more than just my evening plans collapsed. My heart sank. Yesterday, Id spent hours cooking, and today, after a gruelling day, Id rushed home excitedlyonly for this? A rushed meal and a guilty peck on the cheek?
“What do you mean, ‘dash’? Oliver, todays my day!” I reminded him.
Oliver was already slipping on his trainers but paused, giving me a puzzled look, as if he genuinely didnt see the issue.
“But weve already had dinner,” he said, nodding at the plates. “Ate, drank wine. I even got you that fancy hair curler you wanted. Its only Tuesday. Well celebrate properly on Saturday when the mates come over.”
“But I wanted tonightjust us!” I protested, feeling the shadow of loneliness creeping in.
Oliver sighed, spreading his hands.
“Come on, love, whats the fuss? Im not off to the pubjust gaming with the lads. Weve got a match lined up.”
His words stung. *They* were waiting. Hadnt I been waiting too? Id hoped for one evening a year where it was just us, without his “mates.” But apparently, even that was too much to ask.
“Fine, go then,” I snapped, turning away. “But just knowthis mattered to me. We might as well be flatmates at this point.”
He shrugged, carefree, as if we were debating what to watch on telly. But this wasnt about my birthday. It was a cry for something deeper. Lately, Id never felt more aloneeven with him right there.
—
It had started long ago. Truth be told, Id gotten exactly what Id signed up for. Id chosen Oliver because he was fun, easygoing. But what works in dating doesnt always work in marriage.
When we first met, hed whisked me off to gatheringsnot rowdy clubs, but board game nights. No drunken chaos, just polite, witty company. After growing up with a father who drank himself into oblivion and a mother who never stopped complaining, being with Oliver felt safe. Like Id finally found peace.
When he proposed, I was over the moon. He seemed perfectcheerful, bright, financially stable. His inheritance meant he could work part-time, remotely, without the grind of a commute.
The first weeks were a fairytale. A proper honeymoontrips to Cornwall, long talks under the stars. I felt like a princess.
Then reality hit. The moment we got home, the carriage turned back into a pumpkin. That very evening, Oliver vanished, leaving me to unpack and cook.
“The ladsll think Ive gone missing!” hed said. “Just popping round to show them the holiday pics.”
I hadnt minded much then. Almost. I told myself: strong friendships are good. But it kept happening. Over and over, I was left alone with the illusion of a marriage.
—
The last few months played in my mind.
Id come home exhausted after nine-hour shifts, battling traffic, scrambling to keep up. Meanwhile, Oliver would be in his gaming chair, headphones on, laughing loudly. A dirty plate and empty fizzy drink cans beside him.
“Oliver, could you take the bins out?” Id ask quietly, clearing the table.
“Right-o, love! Just finishing this round, then Ill sort it,” hed promise.
“Just finishing” stretched into hours. Eventually, Id drag the rubbish out myselfbecause *I* needed to cook. Because *I* couldnt stand the smell.
It was the same with everything.
Hed stay up till dawn, shouting into his headset while I tried to sleep. We lived side by side but miles apart. Like siblings sharing a house, never truly together.
I tried talking to him.
“What more do you want? Im home most of the day! I cant be glued to you,” hed say, baffled.
But all I wanted was his attention. His presence.
—
Eventually, I confided in my friends. Emily, ever the optimist, shrugged it off.
“At least hes bringing in money and not cheating! Mines off on some construction job up northI see him once a month. Youve got it good.”
But Rachel was blunt.
“Ive been there. Youre lonely *with* him. Just a live-in maid. Hes not ready for marriagestill a boy playing games. Imagine if you had kids? Youd never see him.”
Her words stuck. For a while, I wavered. Maybe Emily was rightOliver was decent, reliable. Maybe I should tolerate it.
But tonight, sitting alone on my birthday, staring at uneaten salads and a half-empty wine bottle, I realised: I didnt want to be Emily. I didnt want scraps. I didnt want to dread my own husband.
The roasted lamb had gone cold. The salads untouched. Id shopped, cooked, left work earlyall for five minutes of his time before he vanished again.
So I called a taxi and went to Mums. Shed lived alone for years. She held me as I cried, then said, “Sod it. Well celebrate. Fancy a takeaway?”
That night, I remembered what family felt like. Imperfect, but there. Mum listenedreally listenedwhile Oliver had long stopped hearing me.
When he called late, I ignored him. I answered in the morning.
“Where were you all night?”
“At Mums. Celebrating with people who care.”
“Alice, dont be daft. Come home. I didnt do anything wrong!”
“Exactly. You did *nothing*. Youre just absent.”
Silence. Then frustration.
“Bloody hell, Alice, its not that deep! We had dinner!”
I took a breath. “Oliver, choose. Them or me.”
“Ultimatums now?” he scoffed. “I love you, but I wont ditch my mates.”
That was my answer.
“Then enjoy your games.”
I hung up. At breakfast, I sobbed into Mums homemade pancakesthen felt lighter. Like a weight had lifted.
When I went back for my things, Oliver barely glanced up from his screen. Just muted his mic.
He stayed in his worldwhere games and lads came first. I walked into mineone where I refused to be an afterthought.
Oliver chose eternal boyhood. And that meant we were never going the same way.
