Mr Manchester

Love these days feels like chasing a mirage: tempting, elusive, and often disappointing. The dating apps are loaded, my thumbs are primed, and yet… somewhere in this endless scroll of profiles, I keep hoping the right one will appear.

Then, there he was. I swiped right on a dreamboat of a man, 6’5” of pure, unrelenting temptation. A two-hour drive away, but who’s counting when the man looks like he moonlights as a Greek god? He had game, too. We talked for hours about life, ambitions, the universe. He asked questions that had me questioning myself: What do I actually want from him? A serious connection? Or was he just someone to scratch an itch, a long-neglected, burning itch that needed tending?

He was funny, intriguing, and surprisingly into me. “I love plus-size women,” he said confidently, as if declaring it might earn him a medal. Apparently, I was exactly his type though I couldn’t help but wonder if that was just his way of saying, Congratulations, you qualify.

His texts soon became uninspiring, peppered with the occasional “wyd” and devoid of the spark that lit up our first chats. I started wondering: Is this my life now? Settling for men who barely know how to ask about my day but still expect my attention?

My friends and I dubbed him Mr. Manchester, it’s easier to keep track that way. He became an occasional blip on my radar, a half-forgotten bookmark in my dating story. Until, of course, his name would flash on my phone: a suggestive picture here, a half-hearted “how’s your day?” there. Romantic, right? Where’s the knight sweeping me off my feet?

Then one night, he called. Unusual for Mr. Manchester.

“What are you up to?”

“It’s half nine, and I’m in bed,” I replied, half-asleep and sceptical.

“I’m on my way to Bristol. Let’s go out.”

He arrived, and let me tell you, he was even more tempting in person. Big smile, even bigger arms, and a scent so intoxicating it should’ve come with a warning label. He opened my door like a gentleman, a gesture that made me almost forget the hours of subpar texting.

Of course, it was 10 p.m. on a Sunday, so options were limited.

“McDonald’s and a chat?” he offered.

Honestly? Perfect. Forget candlelit dinners, give me fries and a meaningful conversation any day.

We talked, we laughed, and eventually he pulled down a quiet, dark road. The kind where the world suddenly feels smaller and the conversation gets softer.

At one point he smirked and said, “Get in the back.”

In a moment of questionable logic, I decided to climb through the middle instead of simply getting out and walking around. Picture this: my shirt halfway off my shoulder, one leg tangled between the seats, and my not-so-small self completely stuck between two car seats like a very determined but very unsuccessful escape artist.

He stared at me for a second, completely deadpan.

“Why didn’t you just get out of the car?”

And that was it. We both burst into laughter. The kind where you can’t breathe, tears are running down your face, and every time you look at each other you start laughing all over again.

Eventually I managed to free myself, dignity slightly bruised but spirits very high. We ended up just sitting there, shoulders touching, still giggling like teenagers who had been caught doing something mischievous.

He looked at me, still smiling, and said softly,
“Maybe we should wait for the right moment… and maybe the back of my car isn’t that moment.”

There was something oddly sweet about it. Instead, we stayed there talking, the night quiet around us, stealing little glances and the occasional lingering kiss that made my stomach flip in ways I hadn’t felt for a long time.

When he dropped me off, he leaned in again, and his kiss was everything: passion, intensity, and the kind of raw connection that makes you forget the world for a moment.

I floated inside, thinking maybe, just maybe, this could be something.

When he got home, he even texted me saying he made it back safe and how much he’d enjoyed the night. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to hope.

But then… nothing.

Days turned into weeks. Two long weeks of silence that felt like an eternity.

And that’s the thing about men like Mr. Manchester. They leave you in a state of beautiful, raw vulnerability feeling like you’re everything and nothing all at once. I hadn’t been touched by anyone since my ex, and I started to believe maybe this was his purpose: to break the chain that tethered me to a love that no longer existed.

Maybe he was meant to remind me that I’m still alive. Still desirable.

And just as I began to believe that maybe he was just another fleeting chapter in my love story, my phone rang.

Not a text. Not a notification.

A call.

I didn’t recognise the number at first, but the moment I heard his voice, my world stopped.

“Hey, it’s me.”

My ex. The man I had spent months convincing myself I didn’t need, couldn’t need, anymore.

Hearing his voice was like reopening an old wound I thought had healed. My chest tightened, my hands shook. How could four simple words undo every ounce of progress I thought I’d made?

“I miss you,” he said, his voice low, aching.

And there it was the heartbreak, the longing, the unbearable weight of unfinished business. I wasn’t sure if I had been running toward something new… or just away from him.