The Road Not Taken: A Love Story in Two Timelines

They say hindsight is 20/20, but for me, hindsight looks more like a hall of mirrors in a French château—equal parts breathtaking and disorienting. Every reflection holds a “what if,” a shimmering vision of the life I could have lived had I zigged instead of zagged. And in one of those mirrors, just beyond the reach of my reality, stands Alexander.

Yes, I realize “Alexander” sounds like the name of some tragic leading man in 19th-century Russian literature, but he was very much real and very much part of the biggest decision of my life—one that sent my love story down a road lined with cobblestones of self-discovery, doubt, and eventual clarity.

Let’s start where stories like this usually do: at the crossroads.

The Crossroads Moment: Love, Lattes, and London

I met Alexander on a wintry November evening in Oxford, because of course I did. He was tall, with a penchant for tweed jackets and an accent so posh it could have softened even Downton Abbey’s Dowager Countess. We bonded over an espresso machine disaster at a quaint café near the Bodleian Library (spoiler: I was the disaster), and what began with spilled milk and flustered apologies quickly turned into late-night debates about Virginia Woolf’s genius and weekend jaunts to the English countryside.

It was all rather cinematic—until, like most seeming fairy tales, reality crept in. My graduate studies were nearing their end, and along with them came a life-altering question: Would I stay in London, diving headfirst into a life with Alexander and carving out a career amidst posh exhibitions and champagne-soaked galas? Or would I return to New York, heeding the siren call of my family and the city that never sleeps?

In my early twenties, this was the kind of dilemma I thought only happened to characters in Nora Ephron movies. But there I was, staring down the very real possibility of choosing between love and home, Oxford and Manhattan, a sophisticated “us” versus an unapologetic “me.”

I made my choice. I returned to New York, leaving the dashing Alexander behind with one last kiss at Heathrow and a promise to “keep in touch” that we both knew was as fragile as the porcelain teacups we used to argue over at Harrods.

So where did that leave me? Let’s examine both roads.

Road One: The Life I Didn’t Choose

Had I stayed in London, it’s easy—dangerously easy—to romanticize the life I might have led. I picture us strolling through Kensington Gardens, planning weekend getaways to Tuscany (because naturally), and collaborating on art exhibitions that would have made magazines swoon. In my mind, this alternate version of me is effortlessly chic, fluent in French (miraculously!), and always punctual for high tea.

But as tempting as that vision is, I also know it’s heavy with lacquered perfection. Every once in a while, I wonder: Would I have slowly lost myself in the cultural swirl of his world? Would my art and my voice have been mere ornaments in a life curated by someone else? Would I have ended up like the portrait of a woman in one of Degas’ paintings—delicate, poised, and silently yearning for something more?

Because here’s the hard truth: loving someone doesn’t automatically mean you’re meant to stay. And while Alexander gave me romance, passion, and a few of the best weekends of my life, he couldn’t quite give me the sense of self that I knew I needed to build. Compatibility isn’t just about shared interests; it’s about shared visions of the future.

Road Two: The Life I Chose

I came home to Manhattan, trading cobblestone streets for concrete chaos. My family pretended to be thrilled (“London, shmundon! New York is the center of the universe!”) while secretly wondering if I’d lost the plot. Friends tried to console me with over-chilled martinis and consolatory praise: “I mean, Alexander was great and all, but doesn’t he only eat scones for breakfast?”

But in truth, those initial months back were brutal. I missed his voice, his laughter, his way of making me feel like art itself. And yet, slowly, New York’s frenetic pace pulled me out of my fog. I poured myself into my career, first as an assistant curator and later launching a boutique imprint dedicated to the intersection of art and culture. I found my voice in a way that I suspect I wouldn’t have under his shadow—and as the years unfolded, I discovered that my creative independence was the love affair I’d always needed.

That isn’t to say it’s always been easy. There were nights I’d stare into my gin-and-tonic (after a particularly disastrous first date) and wonder if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. But then moments of pure synchronicity would remind me why I chose this road: standing ovations at gallery openings, traveling solo through Provence, or debates with brilliant people who pushed my ideas in ways Alexander never could. Being alone, I found, isn’t always lonely—it’s often liberating.

Reflection: Roads, Choices, and the Romantic Myth

One of the sneakiest lies we tell ourselves is that there’s only one “right” path. That if we choose A, everything about B becomes locked behind an iron gate of regret. But that’s not quite true, is it? Life is far messier, with roads that loop back and intersect in ways you couldn’t predict.

I don’t regret leaving Alexander any more than I regret falling for him in the first place. He taught me so much about passion, possibility, and the beauty of taking risks. Without him, there’s no me—and I like the me I’ve become.

If you’ve ever found yourself at your own crossroads, lingering over the life you didn’t choose, here’s a piece of advice: Honor it. Visit it in those fleeting nostalgic moments—but don’t camp out there. You have your own road, your own story to write, and it’s worth walking, even on those days you curse your shoes and wish you’d packed better snacks.

Final Thoughts: Keep Walking

They say “the road not taken” makes all the difference, but maybe the real truth is this: The road you choose is the one that defines you. Because when you walk it with intention—with your core values and desires leading the way—you can’t go wrong.

In a parallel universe, maybe I’m living a tea-sipping, London-dwelling existence with Alexander by my side. But in this one? I’m a jazz-loving, Manhattan-stomping museum geek who celebrates the art of independence. And that, dear reader, is its own kind of masterpiece.