I was twenty-seven when I met her, at a point in my life when I was absolutely unprepared for someone like her.
It happened at a small gatheringa launch for a local magazine, and I ended up there almost by accident. A mate asked me to tag along because he needed a hand with carrying boxes. I had no real plans for the evening, could do with some extra quid, so I agreed. There she was, sitting in the front row, jotting notes in a black notebook. Her phone was face-down, and her coffee stone cold. She didnt seem bothered by anyone else, but when she spoke, the whole room went silent.
I found out later that she was a writer. She wrote for a newspaper and a cultural magazine. She was forty. I had no idea at the time. All I saw was a confident, composed womansomeone who never raised her voice to assert herself, and never needed to.
When the event wrapped up, I went over because I needed a signature for a receipt. She asked my name, looked me straight in the eye, and said,
Do you always look like this, or is it just when you’re nervous?
I burst out laughing. Told her I honestly didnt know. She replied that she liked people who didnt pretend to be confident. Thats how it all started.
We began exchanging messages. Early on, her replies were brief and mine were long. I asked the usual questionswhat she was up to, where she lived, whether she studied. I was upfront: I lived with my parents, picked up whatever work I could find, scraped by on little money, and was just trying to find my footing. She never made me feel lesser, but she never sold me illusions either. From the very beginning, it was clear:
Im not looking for a relationship. Im at a different stage in my life.
Still, we started seeing each other.
Always at her flat. Neat, quiet, packed with books. She had a car, her own routine, her own life. I came by bus, sometimes feeling like I was stepping into a world that wasnt my own. She welcomed me without hurry, without promises. Sometimes Id cook something simple, other times wed just open a bottle of wine and play soft music. We talked a lotabout her job, her writing, and how tired she was of explaining her choices to others.
I never stayed the night; she never saw me off afterwards. I had to insist if I wanted to see her on the weekend. Sometimes she said yes, sometimes shed drop off for two or three days because of deadlines, meetings, or trips. When she returned, it was as if nothing had happened. No apologies, no long explanations.
One evening, after we’d spent time together, she sat at the edge of the bed and told me,
Dont fall in love with me.
I had no idea what to say, so I told her I wasnt in love. We both knew that wasnt completely true.
I wanted morenot necessarily promises, but a place. She reminded me again and again that our paths were different. That I was just beginning, while shed already built her life. That she didnt want to be an anchor, and didnt want me to use her as a shortcut.
I cant give you what you want, she used to say.
And yet, she kept inviting me back.
Over time, I realised she was offering the only thing she was willing to give: fleeting presence, deep conversations, spontaneous encounters. I accepted it because I felt I didnt have the right to ask for more. How could I talk about a future when I couldnt even support myself?
Every time I left her flat, I walked a couple of streets before getting the bus. I always felt both full and empty. Thankful to have spent time with her, yet hollow because I knew I’d return to my room at my parents house, in my not-so-glamorous reality.
She never promised me anything. She never lied. But somehow, it still hurt.
I still see her. Not as often as Id like. Sometimes I catch myself hoping, wishing that one day shell look at me differently. Or that Ill finally grow enough not to feel small next to her. Or maybe Ill just get tired of settling.
Lately, though, being with her makes me more sad than happy.
I wonder why.
