TRAPPED IN ILLUSION
I didn’t marry for love or fleeting passion, but out of defiance, as though daring fate itself. During my final year at university, a group of exchange students arrived in our town. Among them was Charles—a name straight out of a fairy tale, with looks that made hearts skip. Tall, charming, and armed with a guitar, he became every girl’s dream overnight. Why he chose me, I’ll never know. Perhaps it was chance: Evanescence’s *My Immortal* began playing, and I happened to be nearby. That night, I’d dabbed on my flatmate’s Chanel No. 5, stolen in secret. Its scent must have intoxicated him. We kissed till dawn and were inseparable from then on.
I fell recklessly, hopelessly, trailing after him like a shadow. No one mocked me—if anything, my friends envied me. Charles was devoted, spending every moment with me. We wandered through Hyde Park’s winding paths, caught films where he struggled to follow British humour before giving up and pulling me into kisses. Once, he insisted on joining me for my grandmother’s birthday in Manchester. For two hours on the train, he listened patiently to my stories. There, I bumped into an old classmate, Thomas Wright. Charles, eyeing him, whispered, *”The quintessential English bloke, just like I imagined.”* I flushed with secondhand embarrassment for Thomas, for all of us, but said nothing. Back then, his eagerness to meet my family felt like a promise of forever.
Then the fairy tale shattered. When his exchange ended, Charles packed his bags and vanished to Switzerland without so much as a forwarding address. Mustering courage, I confessed I’d thought we were serious. He only laughed. *”You’re lovely, but marriage is a practical affair, not a romantic one.”* My world crumbled. I stopped eating, lost weight, spent three weeks sobbing in my dorm. Exams were failed; the university threatened expulsion. Survival instinct dragged me from that abyss—but *My Immortal* still brought his face to mind, the pain fresh as ever.
That summer, I ran into Thomas. His image resurfaced alongside Charles’ cutting remark about “the quintessential English bloke.” Out of spite, I married him a year later. I defended my dissertation while pregnant, and at night, instead of bedtime stories, I lectured our eldest on Hume—my only use for a philosophy degree. Over time, I understood Charles’ words: Thomas reeked of ale and pickled onions, his socks fossilised in corners, his haircut perpetually bowl-like even at the best barbers. Life with him was bland, my soul starved for colour, wit, laughter. Yet another son arrived, anchoring me deeper in our Yorkshire village’s monotony.
The internet became my escape. I lost hours to forums, took up scrapbooking, reconnected with old classmates. Life grew tolerable, but Thomas still grated. Oddly, I never searched for Charles—until my thirty-fifth birthday, when our youngest, egged on by his father, surprised me with a slideshow set to *My Immortal.* I sobbed, remembering how deeply I’d loved Charles—how I *still* loved him. Thankfully, Thomas and the boys mistook my tears for joy.
*”You always cry at this song,”* Thomas said, grinning. *”Thought you’d like it.”*
That night, I googled Charles’ full name, his Swiss university, and “British philosophy.” The third result led to a faculty page. The man in the photo bore little resemblance to my Charles—paunchy, thinning hair—but the name matched. His bio noted expertise in British and German philosophy. I tried to reconcile this stranger with my memory. *Could this be him?*
Heart racing, I copied his email and spent five hours agonising over a message. Drafts were deleted, rewritten, scrapped again. Finally, I sent: *”Hello, Charles. Found old photos and thought of you (a lie). Wondered how life’s treated you. I’m well (another lie)—married, two sons, editing for a magazine (more lies). Would love to hear from you.”*
For a week, I checked my inbox obsessively, hoping for a long confession of undying love. His reply was a knife to the ribs: *”Hello. I recall Switzerland, but forgive me—I don’t remember you. Did we date? I hope I was kind.”* Certain it was a mistake, I scanned our old photos and sent them. Three days later: *”Ah, that’s me. Funny how young I looked.”* Nothing more. I stared at the screen, willing more words to appear. None came. Shame burned my cheeks; my chest ached with betrayal.
*”Right, dug up the bed for dahlias. Where d’you want the lilies?”* Thomas shuffled in, smelling of soil and last night’s fish and chips.
For the first time in years, I really *looked* at him. Lanky, sun-weathered, with a kindness etched into his face, he was no Adonis—but beside the Charles of today, he was *real.* He remembered my lilies, noticed which songs I loved. Tears pricked my eyes. I stood and hugged him.
*”S’alright, you’ll ruin your dress,”* he mumbled. *”Had one like this years ago. You were on a train with some foreign bloke. Told myself then: I’ll marry that girl, no matter what.”*
I didn’t recall the dress. That evening, flipping through old photos, I found it—near identical. A quiet warmth settled over me.
*”Tom,”* I murmured, *”let’s try for a girl.”*
He agreed—we’d always wanted a daughter. Our third son arrived instead, but we didn’t mind. Now, for the first time, I *am* well. Truly.
