It was 32 degrees in Crete, and the sun was just beginning to set, which made everything look soft and lilac-coloured. I kicked my legs underwater, ocean salt clinging to my skin and hair. This is the life, I thought, without irony. It was one of those moments when you forget about everything—emails, Slack, invoices—and feel really rooted in your body. And it felt good to be alone—not just for a moment, but properly alone, for hours on end.
For as long as I can remember, my partner and I have spent stretches of time apart. She’s been a touring musician, speeding across Europe or the US in a minivan, while I’ve been in Peckham, pulling a trolley cart around Lidl. Or she’s been at home while I’ve been flinging myself into a lake, or biting down on a giant tomato in the sun. We spend much more time together—our bodies collapsing into old indents on our bed, our hands touching in half-sleep—but these moments apart are just as important, I think. It gives you something to talk about when you’re back. It’s like you’re feeding all the different parts of yourself, rather than just the part of you that’s in a relationship.
It’s not always been this way. In the early days, I used to find time apart anxiety-inducing. I’d check my phone constantly, the sight of a blank screen making my insides feel tight and churny. What if she forgets who I am? I’d think—nonsensical, considering the fact that she’d been made even more vivid in her absence. What if she falls in love with everything that’s not me? I’d go out with friends, but really my mind would be elsewhere.
I’m not sure when things changed, but they did, and for the better. As the years went by, I felt more grounded and secure in the relationship, and better able to enjoy the moments when we could actually miss each other. And time apart is fun for her also. She likes to shut herself in a music studio for hours at a time, surrounded by smoke and wires and lights. She has a whole world that I’m not part of, that’s just for her and friends and bandmates, which is a good thing. I don’t want to be in a relationship with another version of myself. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways—would get sick of her going on and on about all the Bravo franchises and the benefits of muslin bed linens.