TRAPPED IN ILLUSIONS
I married not for love or some fleeting passion, but out of defiance—as if challenging fate itself. During my final year at university, a group of foreign exchange students arrived in our town. Among them was Charles—a name straight out of a fairy tale, with a face that made hearts skip. Tall, charming, with a disarming smile and a way with the guitar, he instantly became every girl’s dream. Why did he choose me? Perhaps it was chance—the moment Evanescence’s *My Immortal* began to play, I happened to be standing closest. That evening, I’d dabbed myself with Chanel No. 5, borrowed in secret from my flatmate. The scent must have bewitched him. We kissed until dawn, and from that night, we were inseparable.
I fell for him recklessly, shadowing his every step. No one mocked me—if anything, my friends envied me. Charles, devoted and attentive, spent every moment by my side. We wandered the paths of the old botanical gardens, went to the cinema where he struggled to follow British films but quickly gave up, pulling me close instead. Once, he insisted on accompanying me to my grandmother’s birthday in the next town over. Two hours on the train, he listened patiently to my stories. It was there I ran into an old classmate, Steven Carter. Noticing him, Charles whispered, “Typical English bloke, just like I imagined.” I flushed with embarrassment—for Steven, for all of us—but stayed silent. Back then, his willingness to meet my family felt like a promise, as good as a proposal.
But the fairytale shattered. When his exchange ended, Charles packed his bags and left for Germany without so much as an address. Gathering my courage, I confessed I’d thought what we had was real. He only laughed. “You’re lovely, but marriage is about sense, not heart.” The world crumbled. I stopped eating, lost weight, spent three weeks sobbing in my dorm. My grades plummeted; the university threatened expulsion. I don’t know how I clawed my way out—instinct, perhaps. Yet hearing *My Immortal* still brought his face to mind, the tears rising like a tide.
That summer, I bumped into Steven again. His face summoned Charles’s cruel words about “typical English.” Spitefully, I married Steven a year later. I defended my thesis while pregnant, and in the evenings, instead of bedtime stories, I lectured my eldest on Kant—some small use for my degree. In time, I understood Charles’s remark. Steven always smelled of ale and roast dinners, his socks lived in corners, and even the best barber couldn’t fix his haircut—always looking like he’d been trimmed with a bowl. Life with him was dull, my soul aching for wit, laughter, colour. Instead, a second son arrived, and I sank deeper into the monotony of our village outside Manchester.
The internet became my escape. I lost myself in forums, took up scrapbooking, reconnected with classmates. Life grew lighter, but Steven still grated. Oddly, I never searched for Charles. Until my thirty-fifth birthday, when my younger son—egged on by his father—surprised me with a slideshow set to *My Immortal*. I wept, remembering how desperately I’d loved Charles, how part of me still did. Thankfully, Steven and the boys mistook my tears for joy.
“You always react to this song,” Steven said. “Thought you’d like it.”
That night, I typed Charles’s name, his city, and “British philosophy” into the search bar. The third result led to a German university’s staff page. The photo showed a man unlike my Charles—softened by age, thinning hair. But the name matched. His bio listed his research in British and German philosophy. I imagined my Charles older—yes, this could be him.
Hands shaking, I copied his email and spent five hours drafting a message, wrestling with translation tools. Rewriting, deleting, starting anew. Finally, I sent: *”Hello, Charles. I stumbled across old photos (a lie) and thought of you. I’m well (a lie)—married, two sons, working as an editor (another lie). I’d love to hear how you are.”*
For a week, I refreshed my inbox obsessively. I hoped for some grand confession—that he’d loved me all these years. The reply was a knife’s edge: *”Hello. I recall my time in England, but forgive me, I don’t remember you. Did we have an affair? I hope I was kind.”* Convinced it was a mistake, I scanned old photos and sent them. Three days later: *”Ah, that’s me. Funny, how young I look.”* Nothing more. I stared at the screen, waiting for words that never came. Shame burned my cheeks, my heart splitting with grief.
“Right, dug up the beds for the dahlias. Where d’you want those lilies?” Steven trudged in, smelling of soil and beer.
For the first time in years, I truly looked at him. Tall, lean, his face weathered but kind—not handsome, but next to the faded ghost of Charles, he seemed real. He remembered my lilies, noticed my favourite songs. Tears stung. I stood and hugged him.
“Stevie, you’ll ruin your dress,” he mumbled. “Had one like this years ago, didn’t you? When you were with that foreign lad. I thought then—no matter what, I’ll marry that girl.”
I didn’t recall the dress. That evening, scanning the old photos, I found it—almost identical. Something in me lifted.
“Stevie,” I said softly, “let’s try for a girl?”
He agreed—we’d always wanted a daughter. A third son arrived, but we weren’t disappointed. Now, I can honestly say—I’m happy.
