I was twenty-seven when I met her, at a time when I was least prepared for someone like her to walk into my life.
It happened at a small gatheringa launch for a local magazine in Manchesterwhich I attended almost by accident. A mate had asked me to tag along and help shift some boxes, and as I didnt have any real plans and could use a bit of cash, I agreed. She was sitting on the front row, scribbling into a black notebook. Her phone lay face down on the table, and the coffee in front of her was stone cold. She didnt seem interested in anyone there, but whenever she spoke, the room quieted instantly.
I found out later she was a writer, contributing to a newspaper and a cultural journal. She was forty, though at the time I had no idea. All I saw was a confident, serene woman who never raised her voice to be heardand never needed to.
After the event, I approached her because I needed a signature for a receipt. She asked my name, looked me directly in the eye, and said,
Do you always look like this, or is it just when youre nervous?
That made me burst out laughing. I told her I had no idea. She replied she liked people who didnt pretend to be confident. Thats how it all began.
We started messaging each other. In the early days, she wrote little, while I wrote a lot. I asked her ordinary questionswhat she was up to, where she lived, whether she was studying. I told her the truth: that I lived with my parents, took any jobs I could get, earned a bit of money on the side, and was trying to get started. She never made me feel lesser, but she didnt sell me any dreams either. Right from the off, it was clear:
Im not looking for a relationship. Im at a different stage in my life.
Still, we began seeing each other.
Always at her flat. Tidy, quiet, packed with books. She had a car, routines of her own, a life fully hers. Id arrive by bus, sometimes feeling as if I was stepping into a world that didnt belong to me. She welcomed me without rush or promises. Sometimes I cooked something simple, other times wed just open a bottle of wine, play soft music. We talked for hoursabout her work, her writing, the constant exhaustion of having to explain her choices to others.
I never stayed the night. She never walked me home. It was always me who had to suggest meeting up over the weekend. Sometimes she said yes, other times she vanished for two or three days for deadlines, meetings, or trips. And when she reappeared, it was as if nothing had happened. No apologies. No lengthy explanations.
One evening, after we’d spent some time together, she sat at the edge of her bed and said,
Dont fall in love with me.
I didnt know what to say. I just murmured that I wasnt in love. We both knew that wasn’t completely true.
I wanted morenot necessarily promises, just a place in her life. She, meanwhile, kept repeating that our paths were different. That I was only just beginning, and shed already built her life. That she didnt want to be an anchor, nor did she want me to use her as a shortcut.
I cant give you what youre looking for shed say.
And still, shed invite me over again.
Over time, I realized she offered only what she was able to: fleeting presence, deep conversation, unplanned meetings. I accepted because I felt I had no right to ask for more. How could I talk about a future when I couldnt even support myself?
Every time I left her flat, Id walk down a few streets before catching the bus home. I felt both full and empty. Grateful for the time spent with her, but empty knowing Id return to my room under my parents roof, to my unremarkable reality.
She never promised anything. She never lied. And yet, it hurt.
I still see her. Not as often as I wish. Sometimes I think maybe Im hoping shell look at me differently one day. Or that Ill grow enough not to feel small beside her. Or perhaps Ill simply tire of accepting less.
But I don’t know… Lately, being with her leaves me more sad than happy.
Why is that?
