For three years Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams were Brooklyn's golden couple. In light of the star's untimely death, Radar looks back at the pair's life together and the days after their split

This article originally ran in the Dec./Jan. issue of Radar Magazine. For a risk-free issue, click here

In the dappled September sunlight, shortly after news of the couple's breakup hit the press, a white Celebrity Moving truck sat idling just outside of Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams' 3,600-square-foot, putty-green Boerum Hill townhouse. Heath, it seemed, was skateboarding into the sunset, presumably undergoing some sort of late-twenties crisis as the pressures of stardom and fatherhood—along with several expertly layered scarves—bore down upon his well-toned trapezius muscles.

Along with their artfully named toddler, Matilda Rose, Heath and Michelle—still shy of 30—seemed to be living the dreamFor an avowed nesting-porn addict like myself with a weak spot for Heath and Michelle's singularly unassuming bohemian cool, the couple's split was unexpectedly devastating. And not just because, as the New York Times would later fret, Brooklyn's newfound status as Gotham's most smugly hip borough hung in the balance. It was something deeper. Heath and Michelle, still shy of 30, seemed to be living the dream. Along with their artfully named toddler, Matilda Rose, they represented hard evidence that sturdy, cable sweater–wearing, mortgage-paying romance was not only possible, but in the right hands, even glamorous.

For the sort of women who ooh and aahh over leather-strapped English baby shoes and tiny smocked dresses with Peter Pan collars, those who read Cookie in the bathtub and grow weak at the mention of the word renovation, it was hard not to take the split personally. Heathchelle had betrayed us all. "The relationship had been rocky recently," an anonymous source told Us Weekly. "They tried very hard to make it work but finally decided to separate." And then followed the inevitable platitude: "They just grew apart."

Grew apart? After nearly three years of quietly obsessing over their stalwart romance, their gene-blessed child, and yes, their four-story, $3.5 million piece of heaven, I felt conned. Weeks before the breakup, I'd turned 29—a year older than Heath and a staggering two older than Michelle. I was in a long-term relationship with a fellow who wore ratty John Varvatos jeans and sported designer-quality stubble to work at his Web firm in Chelsea. We were happy—disconcertingly so. But issues were looming. Even in our cooler-than-thou corner of Brooklyn, filled with trendy gin joints and skate shops, it was hard to ignore the wave of babies crashing on our doorstep.

Just down the street from our newly purchased condo, a cozy coffeehouse-slash-urban "playspace" had opened, serving organic PB&J and soy milk to hipster spawn. Nearby, a chic baby goods store sprung to life where a shady auto-body shop once stood. I'd drag the boyfriend in under the pretext of shopping for his infant niece, and wind up stroking the contours of the David Netto–designed cribs, noting how nice they'd look in our home. My hints didn't get much traction, but the simple fact that Heath and

Michelle lived in our midst (albeit with their drivers, stylists, and multimillion-dollar paychecks) seemed to prove that perhaps there was a compromise: Indie rock and infant yoga could coexist. Unmarried bliss, plus baby, plus stylish abode, was a real possibility for urbanites like us—or so I was determined to convince the boyfriend, with Heath and Michelle as a sterling example.

Sure, it was all a little cloying, but they presented a fantasy that seemed eminently attainable, and we all lapped it up. Even as their relationship was quietly fizzling out behind closed doors, the New York Observer crowned them King and Queen of the "New Victorians," a tribe of neotraditionalists far removed from the flash of Hollywood—couples who are happy to breed young and get to bed early. They were just the sorbet needed to cleanse our palates after months upon months of Paris, Britney, Nicole, and Lindsay, and to assure us that there were beautifully attired children somewhere in our futures.