“Will you be my girlfriend?” my boyfriend asked me, standing outside Old Street station in north London with a bouquet of white roses in hand. It was May 2024: the one-year anniversary of our first date. 

“No,” I cackled as he grabbed my waist and pulled me in for a snog. PDA used to make me feel nauseous, but it’s different when you’re in love. “Obviously,” I corrected myself, “I’d love to.” 

Confetti shot through the air. My ancestors cheered from beyond the grave. I’d officially departed the single world.

But beneath the celebration, there was something else. A quiet ache of grief. “We’ve lost another one,” said the voice in my head. No one talks about this part – the moment you kiss your single self goodbye.

Being single for half a decade was both the best and worst period of my life. In my second year of university, I ended things with my first boyfriend because I felt like a codependent loser with no life experience. I was 19. The couple of years that followed were a series of questionable decisions. My self-esteem wasn’t thriving, my priorities were all over the place, and if a boy so much as glanced at me across the dance floor, I took it as a sign from the universe that we were destined to meet.

In 2020, lockdown hit, and I was basically celibate. But I got good at being alone. So when I moved to London at 23, dating was something I did for the plot and the gossip. It wasn’t about finding “the one” or testing my worth. I created a ‘dating segment’ on my Instagram close friends story where I served up my dating disasters on a silver platter to 800 lucky followers: Screenshots of flirty Hinge conversations; videos rating boys’ bedrooms –  4/10 for mismatched sheets and two limp pillows. My private story was the place to be. I lived for giddy late-night debriefs, huddled in club toilets, dissecting every dating detail like detectives in a murder case.

I also started doing things for myself. I went to therapy, learnt to play guitar and started painting. My time was mine. Every weekend, every bank holiday, and every Valentine’s Day were automatically reserved for me and the girls. We did everything together, from pooing with the door open to weekend Brandy Melville hauls down King’s Road, topped off with a £5 pizza slice. I wasn’t alone, but I was independent. I got to decide how my life looked, and that freedom was gold.

The saying “I’m a strong independent woman who don’t need no man” was my ironic mantra. I carried this with me like a badge of honour. I lugged my weekly food shop home, cooked soup when I was ill and built an IKEA bookcase for my bedroom (it was a struggle). What would a boyfriend bring to the table if I was this self-sufficient with all the support, love and stomach-clenching laughter I got from my friends? So I told myself I didn’t need one as a defence mechanism – I had got so used to being alone that wanting more felt like a failure. Providing for myself gave me a sense of pride like I’d cracked some secret code that everyone in a relationship had missed. 

I wasn’t alone, but I was independent. I got to decide how my life looked, and that freedom was gold.

Then it all shifted – enter the boyfriend.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just answering to myself anymore; I had to make space for someone else. Now, I had to consider another person’s feelings. I had to embrace my own vulnerability. I had to learn to compromise. By becoming someone’s girlfriend, I was saying goodbye to the life I built and the person I spent years becoming.

No more collecting stories about men with questionable style and dead chat. No more responding to random “u up” texts with a cheeky grin and a one-way Uber. No more daydreaming about a one-way ticket to Central America. Spontaneous tequila-fuelled Fridays with my friends? Over. This was it—the beginning of the end. I was about to become… boring. 

Boring, like, “Sorry, we’re just having a chill one.” Boring, like scheduling sex because “we’ve both been so busy”. Boring, like the people who say, “Let me check with my boyfriend” before making plans. I could already see it – dinner parties instead of being the last one standing in a sweaty basement at 2am, arguing over how to stack the dishwasher, becoming someone who says we instead of I. No more mystery, no more chasing the thrill of what could happen. 

By becoming someone’s girlfriend, I was saying goodbye to the life I built and the person I spent years becoming.

And worst of all, I’d no longer be able to relate to my single friends anymore. I used to be the go-to person for dating advice – how long to wait before texting back, the perfect flirty one-liner reply, whether their top was showing too much boob for a first date. I can’t join in when my friends dissect their latest dating drama or wild sexual escapades anymore because my dating drama is … my boyfriend. And there’s only so many times I can bring him up without sounding like a smug bitch. The serotonin hit from swapping horror stories from the dating trenches – fake names, scabies scares and someone’s current girlfriend showing up mid-date – are gone.

But was singledom ever as fun as I made it out to be? I was ghosted and second-guessed every single message; I was once cancelled on three times in a row by the same boy. I would watch everyone snogging in the club, pretend I didn’t care and cry on the way home. Spending Sundays alone felt like an unspoken punishment. I became emotionally unavailable. 

So you know what? It’s fucking nice to have someone who asks about my day, who sets up my tent at Houghton festival and cooks me a pescatarian roast dinner for Christmas. It’s so wholesome to deeply care about someone else and equally know they want the best for me, too. I don’t know why I’m acting like I’m suddenly in a relationship prison. I can still let loose, have my own hobbies and be spontaneous with my friends while being in a healthy relationship. I’m glad that I’ve built such special friendships that can exist without me having to be around them 24/7.

I am more than capable of moving flat with nothing but a Zip car and a Charlie XCX playlist – I don’t need my boyfriend in my life, I want him there.

Saying goodbye to my single self is less about giving part of myself up and more about an expansion of who I am. It’s about allowing myself to be soft and letting someone help me (as terrifying as it is). It’s about loving and being loved. Being single taught me resilience. I am more than capable of moving flat with nothing but a Zip car and a Charlie XCX playlist – I don’t need my boyfriend in my life, I want him there.

I am grateful for everything I went through to get here, and maybe that’s where the nostalgia kicks in. She fought for me, taught me invaluable lessons and got me to Old Street Station. She deserves a toast, even if she was a little (very) unhinged. So, thank you to her. I know she’s rooting for me.