Sometimes it seems like I focus too much on the difficult moments in my life and don’t leave enough room to remember all the wonderful things that have happened to me—how blessed I’ve been to meet genuinely good people and to have had positive and life-affirming relationships with romantic partners. One boyfriend I remember fondly was R. He’d been an officer with the RAF and later worked as an air traffic controller at a major international airport, a profession that requires impeccable precision and calm under pressure. I figured someone who thrived in such high-stress environments could handle mercurial little ol’ me.
R was no matinee idol of the kind I’d been fixated on a decade earlier while in my 20s, but there was something undeniably attractive about him—his wit, his intelligence, and his ability to handle anything with grace, including my constantly shifting moods and what was then quite an unpredictable temperament.
R and I met during Grand Prix week in Montréal. The streets were buzzing, gleaming sports cars lined Stanley Street, and the atmosphere was electric. That day, I’d stopped at one of my favourite Portuguese cafés after long hours at work during my art director days at a national women’s magazine. I was lugging around my dry cleaning and feeling utterly unglamorous. I hadn’t planned on lingering, but as I sipped my coffee, I felt a kind of tug and turned to see a woman sitting a couple of tables over by the sliding patio door. She was staring at me with a warm smile and motioned for me to come join her. She mentioned she was waiting for ‘two very nice guys’ from work. I understood she was trying to set me up, but I didn’t mind. She was friendly, and we had an easy rapport.
One of them, of course, was R. He walked in, tall with that upright RAF posture, exuding a quiet self-confidence. From that moment, we were inseparable.
R had only recently arrived in Canada, and his British accent was unmistakable. From the moment we met, he called me Smiler—likely because my name was a bit of a tongue-twister for him. That nickname stuck and became our little secret. But I liked it so much that I’ve kept it ever since, using it on my socials and as my author name on this very blog. It’s a constant reminder that I am indeed capable of attracting the ‘right’ kind of people. If only I knew how to hold onto those relationships, but that’s a different story altogether.
R had a unique charm—handsome in his own untraditional way, with an easy smile and a sharp wit. He loved the outdoors and had acquired a healthy fitness routine in his air force days. Our weekends were filled with hiking, snowshoeing, and spontaneous road trips to escape the city’s confines. For someone like me, who didn’t own a car and rarely got enough physical exercise, those getaways were a breath of fresh air—literally and figuratively.
My bipolar diagnosis was still fairly recent to me at the time, and I hadn’t yet decided whether to tell people about it. I decided R was sharp enough to figure it out by himself. Sure enough, one day, he casually mentioned, “Smila, you forgot your ‘vitamins’ in my bathroom.” That’s when I understood he knew, and somehow, it didn’t matter to him. Those pill bottles were clearly labelled, and he was no fool. He was simply acknowledging it without making a big deal of it. It made me feel safe, like nothing about me would ever scare him away.
At least once a week, I’d pack up my things, ready to storm out over some perceived slight and my own inner turmoil. And every time, without fail, R would say, in that soothing and quiet manner of his, “Smila, how about a nice cuppa teeea?” That was it—no drama, no accusations, just a gentle invitation to sit and talk. We’d settle at the kitchen counter in his beautiful Old Montréal condo, the city lights twinkling outside, and listen to James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” on repeat (click on link to listen). He adored that song, and somehow, it became the soundtrack of our quiet moments together. I loved those moments of calm, the way he seemed to bring out the best in me without even trying.
R’s mother, a delightful woman, came to visit us in Montréal before we made a weeklong trip to the Cotswolds to see her and her second husband. She doted on R, her only child, and we got along splendidly. “My ugly son is lucky to have a beauty like you,” she once said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. It was her way of showing love, and I cherished her warmth and humour.
Their quaint three-floor English home was like something out of a storybook, complete with a charming little garden. It was during this visit that I realized how much I genuinely liked R and his family. Loving someone is one thing, but liking them—that’s rare and precious. He and I were great friends, and I’ve often found myself wondering what might’ve been if I’d had my priorities straight back then.
But life isn’t a fairy tale, and our relationship eventually faltered. His demanding job left him drained, and he’d slump in front of the TV, tuning out. I was full of restless energy, yearning for creativity and connection, while he needed downtime to recharge. Our intimacy suffered, and I unfairly labeled him a dull English guy. In truth, he wasn’t boring at all—just exhausted, carrying the weight of a high-pressure career.
Back then, I expected my partners to fill every role in my life—to be everything I needed: a lover, a confidant, and even a creative partner. At one point, I proposed that we co-write a spy fiction novel together. I thought his RAF background and work in air traffic control gave him unique insider knowledge that could inspire a compelling story. He humoured the idea at first, but when it came time to actually work on it, he hesitated. “I can’t reveal too much,” he said, clearly uncomfortable about divulging any sensitive information.
I remember feeling disappointed, wishing he shared my creative drive, but in hindsight, I can see how unrealistic my expectations were. R wasn’t just a boyfriend; he was a steady hand in my storm, a reminder that kindness and patience are their own kind of brilliance. We were a great team, but life pulled us in different directions. I still look back on those days with fondness, grateful for the laughter, the warmth, and the way he helped me feel seen. Now I know better than to expect everything from a life partner and can hopefully carry forward these lessons. If the right kind of person were to come into my life, I’d cherish them without expectation, but I’m not holding my breath.
It is unfortunate that we couldn’t remain friends. His next girlfriend didn’t want him keeping in touch with an ex, which I fully understand. But I still wonder about him. I would’ve liked to have updates on how he was faring in life. I hope he’s happily married to a lovely woman who can laugh at his wonderful sense of humour and that they have a bunch of beautiful brats—or maybe they’re as delightfully “ugly” as their dad. They’d be young adults by now…
Wherever in the world you are now, bless you, R. You were one of the good ones, and you gave me hope, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful.
From Smiler, With Love.
Totally Surreal 
Let me know what you think!