It was 32 degrees in Crete, and the sun was just beginning to set, which made everything look soft and lilac-coloured. I kicked my legs underwater, ocean salt clinging to my skin and hair. This is the life, I thought, without irony. It was one of those moments when you forget about everything—emails, Slack, invoices—and feel really rooted in your body. And it felt good to be alone—not just for a moment, but properly alone, for hours on end.
For as long as I can remember, my partner and I have spent stretches of time apart. She’s been a touring musician, speeding across Europe or the US in a minivan, while I’ve been in Peckham, pulling a trolley cart around Lidl. Or she’s been at home while I’ve been flinging myself into a lake, or biting down on a giant tomato in the sun. We spend much more time together—our bodies collapsing into old indents on our bed, our hands touching in half-sleep—but these moments apart are just as important, I think. It gives you something to talk about when you’re back. It’s like you’re feeding all the different parts of yourself, rather than just the part of you that’s in a relationship.
It’s not always been this way. In the early days, I used to find time apart anxiety-inducing. I’d check my phone constantly, the sight of a blank screen making my insides feel tight and churny. What if she forgets who I am? I’d think—nonsensical, considering the fact that she’d been made even more vivid in her absence. What if she falls in love with everything that’s not me? I’d go out with friends, but really my mind would be elsewhere.
I’m not sure when things changed, but they did, and for the better. As the years went by, I felt more grounded and secure in the relationship, and better able to enjoy the moments when we could actually miss each other. And time apart is fun for her also. She likes to shut herself in a music studio for hours at a time, surrounded by smoke and wires and lights. She has a whole world that I’m not part of, that’s just for her and friends and bandmates, which is a good thing. I don’t want to be in a relationship with another version of myself. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways—would get sick of her going on and on about all the Bravo franchises and the benefits of muslin bed linens.
Even so, spending extended periods of time away from a partner still isn’t considered the norm, as if you cease to be an independent entity as soon as you commit to someone. I’ve known people to turn down jobs that would require them to travel a lot because they were concerned it meant they weren’t fully devoted to their partner. Just the other day, I told a friend I wanted to travel around Italy by train. I was going to save up, start in Bologna, and speed down to Palermo over the course of 10 days. “That’s a really nice thing to do together,” my friend replied, without even considering the idea that I might be doing it alone.
Obviously, too much time away from each other isn’t great either. There have been instances when my partner’s trips have stretched on for weeks and weeks, and I’ve felt like a tortured Victorian wife waiting for her husband to return from a sea voyage. But life is chaotic, and we can’t be expected to feel just right all the time. What matters is that you communicate and preserve a sense of intimacy, even when things get hectic, and that you make sure to realign yourselves when you’re reunited.
I often think about the famous psychologist Esther Perel, and her view on maintaining the erotic. She describes long-term monogamous relationships as a delicate balancing act “that we achieve intermittently at best.” “It requires knowing your partner while recognizing their persistent mystery; creating security while remaining open to the unknown; cultivating intimacy that respects privacy,” she writes. “Separateness and togetherness alternate in point and counterpoint. We need both but it’s an intricate dance. Desire resists confinement, and commitment mustn’t swallow freedom whole.” Essentially, you shouldn’t be afraid to spend time away from your partner. But there should be a togetherness underpinning the freedom, too.
When I got back from Crete, I felt more present in my surroundings than before. London seemed brighter, noisier. I went out for ice cream and really savored the pistachio gelato melting on my tongue instead of just spooning it down while watching Love Island or something. And when I leaned in for a kiss, my partner smelled like flowers and city sweat and everything that’d happened in the interim that I’d not been privy to, and I felt lucky and in love and very much present.
