he won't commit but won't let me go

He told me that being together should make it obvious he wants to marry me, but it never felt obvious to me. I was twenty-seven, he was thirty-two, and we’d been together for two years. Everything else in our relationship was good. We both had solid careers, great jobs. But whenever I tried to talk about marriage—no matter how I brought it up—he would go silent.

I tried to keep things light, mentioning friends who were getting engaged or married, hoping that would open a door. He just stayed quiet. If I pressed a little, he’d say he felt pressured to react a certain way, that he didn’t know how to respond. Sometimes he’d get irritated, sometimes angry, and always the conversation would shut down.

I told him I wasn’t trying to pressure him. I just wanted to talk openly about our future, to have a casual conversation, or at least a sense of a plan. He’d say the topic made him stressed. He said the conversation made him feel too much pressure.

I tried not to add to the pressure. But I still wanted to talk about what came next for us.

I kept wondering if it was wrong to want a timeline, or if expecting a conversation was bad or toxic. I didn’t know if I was being unreasonable, or if this was just normal. It was always me who brought it up, and it was always met with silence, stress, or anger.

After our agreement, I stopped bringing it up. The topic was off-limits. I felt upset, confused, and stuck. I wanted to be able to talk about our future, but I couldn’t. I kept questioning if I was asking for too much, or if I was somehow making things worse by wanting a plan. The questions didn’t go away.

For now, marriage was something I wasn’t allowed to mention, and I didn’t know how to move forward.

It felt like things were moving forward—after two years of not connecting with anyone, here was someone who seemed thoughtful and present, who shared my interests and values. I was excited, hopeful.

About a month into dating, I asked if we could be exclusive. He agreed. It felt real, like we were building something. He seemed emotionally available, put in effort, and was attentive.

A month ago, I raised the conversation I’d been thinking about—defining the relationship. Instead, he said, “I’d rather wait until September to talk about that. We’ll both be traveling over the summer.”

I didn’t really understand. We were already exclusive, so what would be different about calling it official? He didn’t explain, and I let it go for a while.

But it kept bothering me. Another month passed. I brought it up again. He still didn’t feel ready to be my boyfriend, and he still couldn’t say what would change by being official. I told him that September would make it six months, which felt too long to wait for clarity. He said he understood.

Since then, my enthusiasm has faded. I still see him, but I feel stuck. I can’t explore other connections, because we’re exclusive, but we’re not officially together either. I wonder if he’s unsure about me, or if he’s just not capable of commitment—he’s thirty-four and has never been in a serious relationship. Until now, he’s acted emotionally available and secure, but this situation casts doubt on that.

Meanwhile, other men keep asking me out. At the grocery store, at the farmer’s market, in my Instagram messages. Even a cute guy from my past reached out.

I don’t know what to do. I’m still dating him, but I feel frustrated and uncertain. I keep replaying the conversations, doubting what’s really going on. I could keep waiting, I could end things (but that feels too soon), or I could suggest we date other people as well. I haven’t decided. I ask others if they’ve been in this situation, how they handled it, and how long they would wait for commitment.

I told him a few weeks ago that I was starting to develop real feelings. I wanted to know if he felt the same way.

He hesitated, then said he cared about me, but he wasn’t ready to say “I love you” yet.

We’d been together almost a year by then. In the beginning, everything was casual and private. I’d just come out of a long relationship, and I needed time to heal and figure myself out. I noticed early that he had some commitment issues, but I liked being with him. We agreed to keep things casual, but also to be exclusive with each other.

Around the third or fourth month, something shifted. He began introducing me to his close friends. It was the first time I felt like I was becoming part of his life outside of our time alone.

Within the last month, I met his parents. He met mine, too. It felt like a step forward, but I still wasn’t sure where things were going.

After I confessed my feelings and he told me he wasn’t ready, I felt crushed. He asked me to keep things the way they were and to give him more time to get there emotionally. Since then, I’ve started to feel resentment. When I ask for reassurance, he makes me feel silly for even bringing it up.

He does show care in other ways—cooking for me, spending time together, being exclusive, introducing me to his friends. But my emotional needs aren’t being met. Every time I try to talk about feelings or the future, he seems hesitant.

Now I’m stuck between giving him more time and worrying that I’m wasting mine. I’m afraid of being the one who loves harder. I don’t need to hear “I love you” every day, but after a year, the absence of those words makes me feel vulnerable and confused.

I’ve asked others online if they’ve been in a similar place. Reading their replies, I thanked them; their experiences gave me more clarity, but not an answer.

I’m still here, still with him, still unsure if I should wait or move on. I don’t know what comes next.

She said she loves me and the time we spend together, but she needs space. She explained she doesn't want to commit to anything yet because she's so young.

It hurt, bad. I figured it was about wanting to sleep with other people, and I understood that, considering her age. She’s 23, works as a bartender, and has guys hitting on her nonstop.

Four or five months into seeing each other, I’d given her the option for space. I told her she could take it if she wanted, but she said she didn’t want to stop and that she wanted me. It felt like more than friends with benefits, even though we never called it anything else.

In the seven months since we started, she slept with two other guys—one at the beginning, one midway through. She told me about them, and I said as long as she was honest, I could handle it.

But after her recent text, I told her we probably shouldn’t keep going. It didn’t matter. The next day, she was FaceTiming and texting me again. We’re still having sex, still talking every day, like nothing changed.

I’m invested. I know for a fact that she really likes me, but she keeps saying we’re just friends. I don’t want to cut things off, but I don’t want to feel that pain again. I keep thinking about all the emotion and time I’ve put in, and the connection we have—great sex, great conversations. I wonder if I’m being strung along.

I don’t know if I should end it completely to protect myself, or keep going and risk getting hurt again. I haven’t decided. I’m just stuck here, not knowing what to do next.

There wasn’t a word for what we were, but it felt like something more than friends.

I met him my freshman year. From the beginning, we just clicked. We blurred lines, acting out every part of being together except actually saying we were. It went on that way for a long time. But the uncertainty always lingered.

Eventually, it got to me. The ambiguity built up until I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I gave him an ultimatum. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, but I needed to know where we stood.

It didn’t last. In the end, we broke up. We decided to take some space, not see each other for a while.

When school started again in the fall, avoiding him wasn’t really possible. Our friend groups overlapped everywhere. So, we started talking again. Slowly, we rebuilt a kind of friendship. But as we grew closer, the same question came back: what were we?

He told me he loved me. That he could see a future together. He said he hoped we were “endgame.” But every time we talked about actually being in a relationship, he pulled back. He said he wasn’t ready. He needed to work on himself.

We had the same conversation more than once. Each time, it ended the same way. He wasn’t ready.

I keep wondering if I’m just being strung along, or if there’s really something holding him back that I can’t see. We’re close, but undefined. The conversations repeat. The uncertainty stays.

I don’t know if this will ever change.

We were sitting together when I brought it up, as gently as I could. I asked when he thought he’d be ready for us to get engaged, or to start looking for a house. He got upset, right away.

“You’re pressuring me,” he said.

He always said that. I told him I just wanted to know if he had any idea when he might be ready. It never changed his answer.

“I don’t know. I’m not ready yet.”

No reason. No timeline. Just not ready.

We’ve had these conversations before. When we first talked about our future, we both said that marriage and buying a home were important to us. We both meant it, or I thought we did. We both have good jobs. We’ve saved enough for a down payment. There’s nothing stopping us, at least not on paper.

After those talks, I’d lie awake, replaying everything. I wondered if I was asking too often, or if I was somehow making things worse just by wanting to know.

But every time I tried to talk about it, it ended with him upset and me feeling smaller. He never gave a reason. He couldn’t tell me when he might be ready—just that he wasn’t.

I started to wonder if he would ever be ready, or if he even loved me. I wondered if maybe he was only with me because he didn’t think he could find someone else.

I haven’t left. I keep thinking about it, but I’m terrified of being alone.

Nothing has changed yet. I’m still here, still asking myself if I should wait or if I need to find a way to move on.

She was beside me in bed, still, her breathing quiet. Even then, I kept remembering the way she would look at me, taking in every detail of my face, as if she was trying to check if I was okay. I used to listen for her murmurs as she slept, the small sounds that filled the space between us every night.

There were so many little things. The way she woke in the morning, eyes still closed, head tilted back. The way we’d get excited over small gifts for each other, picked up on the way home. How we bonded over food. These moments made up our life together.

But there was always the background noise of language and culture. Our shared language was the one I grew up with, but I was never fully fluent. She wasn’t either, not quite. I didn’t speak her mother tongue, and she didn’t speak English. Our conversations always had a limit.

I am an extrovert. My social life matters to me, but most of my friends couldn’t talk to her. I tried to find friends we could both see, people who wouldn’t make us work so hard to understand. It was difficult, though sometimes we managed.

Her friends were mostly from her own country. She was never very outgoing, and I was usually left out of her gatherings. If I joined, I just nodded, smiled, and stayed on the edges.

When it was just us, we spent our time together—often watching Netflix, hunting for something we could both understand. There weren’t many options, but we made do.

I am a comedian and a writer. She couldn’t fully understand what I did on stage, or read my work. She never got to see the side of me that mattered most, the part that made others laugh. That always sat with me.

Maybe that’s why I started making bad choices. I began staying out late, spending time with other women. I never cheated, but I was close to the line. I hoped if I pushed things, something would become clear. It didn’t.

I worried about the future. We were in the only country where things worked, but if we moved, one of us would struggle. In the US, she would have a hard time. In her country, it would be me. We’d both have to learn a new language to talk to friends and family, and neither of us had made much progress with that, even after almost three years.

Last night, I ended it. We still live together, so that night we slept in the same bed, just like always. While I was asleep, she drank four airplane bottles. The sound of her sobbing and throwing up in the bathroom woke me.

When it was just us, it felt perfect. But it didn’t add up outside those moments.

I didn’t want to keep her waiting while I tried to figure everything out. She’s thirty. I’m almost out of my twenties. Nearly three years, and I still had the same uncertainties as I did at the start. It didn’t feel fair.

Now I keep thinking maybe this was a huge mistake. But I also wonder if getting back together would just mean ending up here again, only later.

He kept making the effort, but they just wouldn’t accept him. Their reasons never made sense to me. I still don’t understand what, exactly, they think is so wrong with him. It felt like they had made up their minds, and nothing I said or did made any difference.

I told my parents, again, that I wasn’t going to visit unless my partner was included. That was the rule I’d set. But they wouldn’t budge. They kept asking why I couldn’t just come see them by myself.

Any time I tried to explain, it circled back to the same thing. They said I was being weird, that I wasn’t flexible.

We had a huge argument. I stood my ground. I said I cared about them, but I didn’t think they had any real reason for refusing to make an effort with my partner. They kept insisting, trying to make me feel like I was the problem for not just doing what they wanted.

It got more heated. They wanted to have a relationship with me, but only if I left him out. I started to feel like I was just being manipulated, that they were trying to get their way by making me feel guilty. I didn’t want to be in places or around people where my partner wasn’t welcome.

I went no contact.

He sat across from me in our apartment when I finally said it in April. The conversation I’d rehearsed, the one I’d been circling for months.

“If you’re not planning to propose in the next year or two, I need to reevaluate.”

He didn’t argue. He was firm: he didn’t know when he’d be ready and didn’t like being “forced into a timeline.” We’d been together almost nine years, since we were fifteen. I wasn’t asking to get married right away—just to know we were headed in the same direction.

A few days later, he brought it up again. He said he’d seen his friends “having fun” being single, dating around, and it made him wonder if he was missing out. He said he wanted to marry me, but he was afraid of the “what if” that wouldn’t go away. His idea was a month-long break so he could confirm if I was the woman for him. He promised he’d have a definite answer about marriage after.

I was angry. I told him I wasn’t giving him a month-long pass to sleep with other women before deciding if he wanted to marry me. That time, we argued. I still feel angry about the nerve of it.

I didn’t leave then. It took another month. I finished grad school, started my analyst job, and, still hoping things would work out, signed another year-long lease at our apartment. My parents helped me pay to break it.

The breakup itself wasn’t hard. By then, resentment had built up. I moved out and into a studio within a week.

The first month was brutal. I didn’t cut contact. We didn’t talk for a few days after I moved, but I broke no contact first. I was miserable, crying, feeling so alone. Leaving after being with someone for that long—almost every bit of who I was tied to him. Our friends, our families, everyone in the new city knew us as a couple. Almost everyone who knew me, knew him, and vice versa. That doesn’t really occur to you until you’re no longer together.

We chatted for a bit, and he asked to meet up. I did. We hooked up and I left feeling hollow.

I visited my parents the following week. They talked some sense into me. Neither of them really cared for my ex. They felt I was too mature for him and worried he’d hold me back, though they’d never said so before. They talked about how much I’d accomplished as a young adult, that I was educated, a catch, and still had plenty of youth left to find myself or someone else. I don’t know what I’d do without them.

It still took a while before I fully committed to no contact. I almost got back together with my ex twice. But it’s been over three months since I last talked to him—he’s blocked everywhere now—and I’m feeling so much better.

Since the breakup, I started going to the gym and joined a yoga club, where I met a group of women I’ve grown close to. One of them married her high school sweetheart and has two kids. Hearing her story and comparing it to mine was like night and day. She married way younger than I’d be comfortable with, but there was never any questioning her husband’s intentions, never begging for answers. It was eye-opening to see that in real life.

I’m doing great at work, going out more, reading, and I started therapy. It almost feels like I’m just now entering actual adulthood.

I don’t know when I’ll date again. I definitely would still like to be married one day, but it’s not a priority for me right now. I miss my ex and am thankful for the role he played in my life, but leaving has made me realize I want my own identity before tying myself to anyone else.

She ended it a little over a month ago, after three years together. We’d spent the last year long-distance, growing more and more emotionally distant, and then she told me she didn’t see a future for us. I still did, but she had made her decision. We parted on good terms, with respect, but I was left to figure out what came next.

She was my first serious relationship. I’m white, and she’s Indian—deeply connected to her community, always involved in dancing, festivities, traditions, food, and ceremonies. I loved that about her. I loved how much she loved her culture, and how it became part of my life too. It felt like this extra dimension, something vibrant and alive, something I didn’t have in my own background.

When it ended, I knew I was losing her, and I knew I was losing that future. But I didn’t expect the other part—the feeling that I was losing a whole culture, too. It’s an extra bundle of loss. I can still appreciate Indian culture, but I know I won’t ever be as close to it as I was with her. That stings in its own way.

Now, when I see anything related to Indian culture—a festival, a dish, a song—it just reminds me of her, and it hurts. It’s all still fresh, and the sadness hits hard. I’m mourning not just her, but that part of her life that I got to share. It feels irreplaceable, like something that was bigger than both of us.

I’ve started to think about the future. Maybe I’ll find someone else I click with. But I can’t help worrying—if they don’t have a strong cultural component, will it feel like something’s missing? I don’t want a replacement for her; I want someone special and unique in their own right.

I’ve posted online, looking for advice, wondering if anyone else has felt this double loss. I’m still grieving, still trying to accept that the future I imagined isn’t going to happen. For now, I’m just trying to process it all and hoping that eventually, I’ll find a way to move forward.

He told me it isn’t “right” for us to spend the night together. We’d been together for a year, having those big conversations—marriage, buying a house, starting a family. Both of us wanted to get married; that was always clear. The details never came up. He’d said he hadn’t really thought about the wedding itself.

I was raised Baptist, but that was a long time ago. I’ve been an atheist for about ten years now. He’s Catholic. None of it seemed like a problem, not until that moment.

When he said it, I asked him what he meant. I pressed for more. He explained: it would only be right if we were married in the church. Not just married. Married in the church.

That isn’t something I want to do.

We’d been talking about our future, picturing a life together, planning. All of a sudden, there was this line I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t know how important a church wedding was to him, or if there was space for compromise. I wanted to understand. I love him. But I didn’t know if there was middle ground, or what that would even look like.

So I started asking. I wanted to know if anyone else had figured this out—if this was something other couples had managed to work through. I wanted to understand what a church wedding meant to him, and why it mattered. I started looking for stories, for advice, for any sign that this wasn’t the end of our plans.

We haven’t changed anything about how we live, not yet. But now I’m searching for an answer, and I don’t know what comes next.

“So, I wanted to talk about us. About, um, marriage.”

I kept my voice steady. “I mean, I’m not saying right now. Just… a general idea? Like, maybe getting engaged in a year or two, married around twenty-seven. I just want to know if that’s still something you want.”

“Why are you pushing this all of a sudden? We’re too young to be thinking about marriage. I’ll propose when I’m ready.”

I tried to explain it wasn’t pressure, just wanting to know if we were still on the same page. But he got defensive. We both raised our voices, and the conversation turned into an argument.

Nine years together—since high school—and I’d always felt sure. We’d talked about marriage before, back when it was some distant thing for after college. Both our families are still together, thirty years or more. It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t want the same future.

A few days later, I tried again. “I’m not expecting a ring soon. I just want to know if you see marriage with me, ever.”

Then he said, “I couldn’t make a promise for something so far into the future.”

It’s not like he’s distant in other ways. He’s always been the one to plan date nights, help around the apartment, pay the bills when I couldn’t. When I started grad school, he covered everything until my internship started. I’ve always felt secure with him—except now, when it comes to this.

Our lease ends in April. I graduate in May. I told myself I’d wait until after midterms and my birthday before trying one last time to talk, calmly, about where we stand. In the meantime, I’ve started looking at other apartments, just in case. I keep telling myself I’ll be okay, that I have friends and family who’ll help if I need it.

I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what I’ll do if nothing changes. I just know I can’t stay in this limbo, not knowing if the person I love still wants the same future.

Instead, I read that he wasn’t ready for a relationship. He said he loved me, but couldn’t promise he’d be loyal for the rest of his life, and didn’t know why he even felt that way. He wrote that he needed to figure out his own life before he could give me what I deserved. He talked about the pressure of me moving there after university, how he wasn’t happy with himself, and how he needed time.

Since October, everything had changed. He’d become distant, saying he was just too busy, too pressured, that he couldn’t give me what I needed. I kept telling him I wasn’t asking for much—just the bare minimum. But nothing changed.

That night, he called.

“You’re the only one I want to be with,” he said. “But the timing is wrong. I want to keep in contact for the next two years, so we can see where things go. I want to work on myself and be a better partner for you.”

Part of me wanted to believe him, but another part of me wondered if he just wanted to keep me around until he was ready to move on. He asked me to think about it, said he’d be happy if we could find some common ground.

He booked flights to come see me—to talk over everything one last time. I didn’t know what he expected from me. If we were broken up, I didn’t want to keep waiting or keep hoping he’d make up his mind. I wondered why someone would want to wait two years to be with someone they said they loved.

I asked him what “keeping contact” actually meant. He said he wanted to text on and off, check in on each other’s feelings, and know if either of us started seeing someone new. He wanted to see me sometimes, too. I told him that would just keep me stuck—he’d always be in the back of my mind, and I wouldn’t be able to move on.

“I’m not going to act like your girlfriend if we’re not together,” I said. “I won’t visit you, go on dates, or sleep with you.”

He said this time apart could be weeks, months, or even the full two years. I told him I couldn’t just wait around, hoping he’d eventually decide he wanted to be with me again.

I asked him directly why he couldn’t be loyal. He said the idea of settling down forever was scary, but that he didn’t plan on sleeping with anyone else—he knew he wouldn’t find better than me, so why even look? It didn’t make sense to me, the way he kept switching between wanting me and not wanting to commit.

He kept saying he needed to prioritise himself for his mental health.

I decided I’d tell him in person on January 2nd that it’s completely over. I’ve stopped planning visits, stopped wondering what he’ll decide. I’m not going to act like his girlfriend when he won’t decide if he wants to be with me or not.

He told me, directly, that he wasn’t looking to date or be with anyone right now.

We had feelings for each other. That was clear between us. Six months earlier, he’d gotten out of a toxic relationship—he’d told me that, too.

I’d heard from others that when men say they’re not looking to date, it might not be the whole story. That if the right person came along, they wouldn’t hesitate. I kept thinking about that after our conversation, turning it over in my mind.

He said he wasn’t looking to date. I listened. I thought about his breakup, how recent it was, and wondered what that meant for us.

Eventually, I told him we should keep things platonic.

After that, we stopped talking. No slow fade, just nothing.

I can’t wrap my head around it. I keep thinking about what happened and why. I still don’t know his real reason, and I’m left with the questions.