I cry at my first flat viewing, and my second. Through single beds and shared cupboard spaces, I tell strangers how my “forever romance” ended just weeks earlier and how I actually have no clue what I’m doing.

I’m 32, very nearly 33, and my years-long relationship had been a ticking time bomb ever since I said the words “I want children”. I knew, right from the start, that my former partner did not feel the same. And as I navigated the pain of my biological clock going off at just the wrong time, I realised I had to end things.

But ending things in your thirties isn’t the same as ending things in your earlier years when you can chuck your toothbrush in your back pocket and move on. Weiterlesen