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… where is my needle in this digital haystack?

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 body?

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 then things took a turn—a dark road, a secluded spot. Desire crept in like a storm cloud. He said, “Get in the back,” and in a moment of questionable logic, I decided to climb through the middle. Picture this: my shirt halfway off, pants sliding down, and my not-so-small self completely stuck between two car seats. He stared at me, deadpan, and said, “Why didn’t you just get out of the car?”

We laughed until tears streamed down our faces, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach ache and your guard crumble. Eventually, I got unstuck—and let’s just say, that man folded me into shapes I didn’t know I was capable of. Between the dog walkers and the stars, only God knows what went down in that car that night.

Afterward, as he dropped me off, he leaned in, 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 recognize 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.