I’m 35, Never Married, and I’ve Lived With 5 Men. This Is What I Know Now.

I’m thirty-five. I’ve dated five men. Laugh if you want. I lived with almost all of them.

Plain truth: thirty-five, never married, five relationships. At the start of each one, I thought it would be the last. Life doesn’t settle by “the last.” It settles by “at the time.”

To other people, I’m an approximate number: thirty-five, unmarried, five relationships, five cohabitations. Rounded off, I become a label. The decimals behind the label, only I know.

At twenty-four, I lived with someone for the first time. We bought couple toothbrushes, one blue, one pink. At IKEA, we argued over a mug that cost nine yuan ninety. We bought two. At home, he moved my books to the second shelf and shoved his clothes into my closet. The closet door wouldn’t close. He pressed it with his knee and it shut. I thought this was the future.

Then we broke up. I moved out. Cardboard boxes by the door. Tape torn crooked. He stood by the door and said sorry. I said it was fine. Going downstairs, I carried a bag of trash. I forgot to throw it away and carried it to my new place before tossing it. In the new kitchen, I made instant noodles. One seasoning packet was missing. I squatted on the floor and finished the noodles. I didn’t cry.

After that, I stopped believing a shared closet meant a shared future.

At twenty-seven, the second. We lived together for two years. Two good people. We still ruined the days. When we fought, we didn’t talk. Cold war. When we were sad, we didn’t talk. We scrolled on our phones. When we wanted a hug, we didn’t say it. We turned over and slept. We called this being sensible.

Once I worked overtime until dawn. I came home and saw he’d left the little night light on. In the kitchen was a bowl of noodles covered with plastic wrap. I stood there and tears fell. Not from being moved. We could still take care of each other. We no longer knew how to love each other.

I ended it. He said, “We don’t have any big problems.” I said, “I don’t have the strength anymore.” He sat on the sofa, turned the TV on, then off. I dumped the noodles into the trash. The next day, washing dishes, I saw a ring of dried sauce at the bottom of the bowl. I scrubbed it with steel wool for a long time.

At thirty, the third. The age other people call the age to marry. We met parents. We talked about apartments. We calculated down payments and bride price. His mother asked, “After marriage, when do you plan to have a child?” I smiled and said, “We’ll let nature take its course.” She put a piece of fish in my bowl. There were many bones. I picked them out one by one and put them on a tissue. After that meal, there was a small mountain of fish bones on the tissue.

Later we broke up. He wanted to marry on time and have a child on time. I wanted someone I could discuss things with, someone who could say no with me. On the day we broke up, he gave me tickets to a wedding expo. I didn’t throw them away. I put them in a book and later used them as a bookmark. When the book fell open to that page, the ticket stub fell out. I picked it up and put it back.

At thirty-two, the fourth. Almost married. We looked at rings. We asked about hotels. I tried on a wedding dress. Standing in front of the mirror, the white dress fit well. He stood behind me, leaned in, tried to kiss me. My phone rang. The wedding planner asked about dates. I turned my head away and answered. He laughed in the mirror. I laughed too. The two people in the mirror looked like a couple.

Later we fought. He said, “Can you not be so sensitive?” I froze. That night I canceled the wedding photo appointment. They kept five hundred yuan of the deposit. I held the receipt and bought two skewers of oden at the convenience store. The radish was overcooked. It broke when I picked it up. I stood outside the store and ate it, then threw the skewers in the trash.

I called off the wedding. Everyone said it was a pity. They said I was already thirty-two. I knew that if I didn’t call it off, every day after would be a pity.

At thirty-four, the fifth. This one was calm. We cooked together. We walked the dog together. We watched old movies on weekends. When my stomach hurt, he poured me hot water. When he worked late, I left a light on for him. We were like two adults, seriously trying to come closer.

In the end we separated. He wanted marriage. I wanted confirmation. He wanted a result. I wanted a result that wouldn’t scare me. No fight. No resentment. One day he sat on the sofa and said, “I probably can’t wait anymore.” I said, “I know.” He put the keys on the shoe cabinet. The door closed. I didn’t cry. I took the yogurt he liked out of the fridge and drank one myself. It tasted a little sour. The dog lay by the door for half an hour. I hung the leash behind the door. It looked up at me, then lay down again.

Thirty-five. Relatives and friends ask, “Your conditions aren’t bad. Why aren’t you married yet?” As if marriage were grocery shopping. If your conditions are enough, you can buy it. I know it’s not. It needs two people willing to reach out at the same moment. That’s rarer than luck.

I don’t regret living with them. Living together showed me a person’s temper in the morning, how they spend money, how they talk under pressure, how they treat waiters, how they end a fight. These things you can’t see on dates. Travel doesn’t always show them either. Only in one room, among bills and chores, do they slowly come out.

I don’t think five relationships are a stain. I was serious in each one. The first taught me to throw away toothbrushes first when moving. The second taught me to scrub the sauce at the bottom of the bowl clean. The third taught me to pick out fish bones. The fourth taught me to turn my head in front of a mirror. The fifth taught me to finish the yogurt. They didn’t make me worth less. They made me know what I don’t want, and what I do.

Being thirty-five and unmarried doesn’t mean no one wants me. It means I won’t hand the rest of my life to someone only fit to be a roommate.

Other people see me as an approximate number. Thirty-five, unmarried, lived with five men. Rounded off, I become something to discuss. I know I am a long string of decimals. The nine-yuan-ninety mug from IKEA. The steam on plastic wrap. The fish bones on a tissue. The turn of my head in the wedding dress mirror. The keys on the shoe cabinet. The sour yogurt in the fridge.

I still want love. I don’t need marriage to prove I have it. If one day I marry, it will be because I want to live with that person. Not because I’ve reached the age to marry. If I don’t marry, it doesn’t mean a piece of my life is missing. I will keep working, eating, sleeping. I will keep the plants alive. I will read. I will travel with friends. I will save money and buy insurance. I will learn to say no. I will learn to start again.

Tonight I changed the water for the pothos on the balcony. I poured the old water into the sink. A leaf touched the rim of the glass. One had turned yellow. I pinched it off. I filled the glass with new water and put it back on the windowsill. I opened the drawer. Inside was an old key. I didn’t know which ex it belonged to. I took it out, looked at it, and put it back. The drawer closed with a very light sound.

My phone lit up. I sent a message to the fifth man: “I’ve thought it through. I want to marry. I’m just afraid I’ll marry and still be alone. You don’t have to reply.” I put the phone face down on the table. The dog came over and rested its chin on my knee. I patted its head. Outside, someone was taking in clothes. Hangers knocked together, ding-ding. I still have work tomorrow.