I’m twenty-seven, and I met her at a time when I was utterly unprepared for someone like her.
It happened at a small eventa launch for a local magazine, where I ended up almost by accident. One of my mates needed a hand lugging boxes, and since I had nothing much planned, and could use a bit of extra cash, I agreed. She sat right at the front, scribbling notes in a black notebook, her phone facedown, a cup of cold coffee forgotten beside her. She showed no interest in anyone around, but whenever she spoke, the whole room fell silent.
I later found out she was a writera columnist for the paper and a contributor to a cultural magazine. She was forty. Back then, I didnt know that. All I saw was a womancalm, assuredwho never raised her voice to be heard and never needed to.
When it was over, I had to approach her for a signature on a receipt. She looked me straight in the eye and asked my name, then said, Do you always look like that, or just when youre nervous?
I burst out laughing. Told her I hadnt a clue. She replied that she liked people who didnt pretend at confidence. And thats how it all started.
We began exchanging messages. At first, she was brief and to the point, while I wrote long, rambling texts. I asked simple things: what she was up to, where she lived, if she was studying. I told her the truththat I still lived with my parents, worked whatever I could find, barely earned enough to get by, and was just trying to find my feet. She never made me feel inferior, but neither did she offer false hopes. Right from the start, she was clear: Im not looking for a relationship. Im in a different place in life.
But still, we started meeting up.
Always at her flat. Pristine, quiet, overflowing with books. She had her own car, her own tempo, her own world. Id arrive by bus, often feeling like I was stepping into a realm that wasnt mine. She welcomed me with no rush, no promises. Some nights Id cook a simple meal; other times, wed just open a bottle of wine and play soft music, talking endlesslyabout her job, her writing, the weariness of explaining her choices over and over.
I never stayed the night. She never saw me home. If I wanted to meet up over the weekend, it was always me who had to ask. Sometimes she said yes; other times shed vanish for days, swamped by deadlines, meetings, or away on trips. When she came back, it was as if nothing had happened. No apologies, no explanations.
One evening, after wed sat together for hours, she perched on the edge of the bed and said, Dont fall in love with me.
I didnt know what to say. I managed, Im not, though we both knew it wasnt strictly true.
I wanted more. Not necessarily promisesjust a place. She kept saying our paths were different, that I was just starting out while her life was settled, that she didnt want to be an anchor or let me use her as a shortcut.
I cant give you what youre after, shed say.
Yet shed always invite me back.
Over time, I realised she was offering the only thing she was ready to give: sporadic presence, deep conversations, impromptu evenings. I accepted it, because I felt I had no right to want more. Who was I to speak of a future, when I couldnt even support myself?
Every time I left her flat, Id walk a few streets before catching the bus home. I felt full, and empty, all at once. Grateful for the hours spent with her; hollow, because in the end, Id go back to my parents place, to a world that wasnt glamorous.
She never promised anything. Never misled me. Still, it hurt.
I still see her. Not as often as Id like. Sometimes I wonder if Im hoping shell look at me differently one day, or that Ill mature enough not to feel so small beside her. Or perhaps Ill tire of making do.
But lately being with her leaves me feeling sad more than happy.
Why?
