I am twenty-seven, and I stumbled into her life at a moment when I was least prepared for someone like her. It all began at a peculiar little eventa presentation for a local magazinewhich I attended almost by accident. A mate had asked me to come along, needing help shifting crates, and I had nothing planned. I needed a bit of cash, so I agreed. There she was, seated at the front, jotting notes into a black diary, her phone overturned on the table, a cold cup of tea untouched before her. She appeared uninterested in everyone, but the room hushed whenever she spoke, as if her words cut through the fog.
It was only later I learnt she was a writercolumns for a newspaper and essays for a cultural journal. She was forty. I didnt know any of that then. I just saw a confident, unruffled woman who never raised her voice to make herself heardshe didnt need to.
Afterwards, I approached her, as I needed a signature for a receipt. She looked me dead in the eye and asked my name, then said,
Do you always look like this, or just when youre nervous?
I laughed loudlyan odd, echoing sound. I told her I wasnt sure. She replied she liked people who didnt pretend to confidence. And so it began.
We started writing to each other. At first, she sent short notes while mine spilled paragraphs. I asked simple questions: what she did, where she lived, if she was still studying. I told her the truthI lived with my parents, worked odds and ends, scraped together pounds, trying to get started. She never made me feel less, but she sold no illusions either. From the outset she made it clear:
Im not looking for a relationship. Were at different places in life.
Still, we started to meet.
Always in her flat. Neat, tranquil, overflowing with books. She owned a car, moved to her own rhythm, lived her own life. I arrived by bus, sometimes feeling that her world was a foreign country. She welcomed me without haste or promises. Sometimes I cooked something basic, other times we simply opened a bottle of wine and let soft music drift. We talked, endlesslyabout her work, her writing, how weary she felt from explaining her choices to others.
I never stayed overnight. She never saw me back home. I had to ask if we could spend the weekend together. Sometimes she said yes, then vanished for two or three days, lost to deadlines, meetings, journeys. When she returned, it was as though nothing had happened. No apologies, no explanations.
One evening, as we sat on the edge of her bed after being together, she said:
Dont fall in love with me.
I didnt know what to say. I just told her I wasnt in love. We both knew that wasnt entirely true.
I wanted more. Not promises, just a place. She always repeated that our paths diverged. That I was beginning while she had built her life. That she wouldnt be an anchor, nor let me use her as a shortcut.
I cant give you what you want, shed say.
Yet she invited me back again.
Gradually, I realised she offered only what she was ready to give: intermittent presence, deep conversation, spontaneous meetings. I accepted it, because I felt I had no right to ask for more. What claim did I have to the future when I couldnt even support myself?
Whenever I left her flat, Id walk several streets before catching the bus. I felt simultaneously full and empty. Grateful for time with her. Hollow, knowing I returned to my room in my parents house, to my less-than-glamorous reality.
She never made promises. She never lied. And still, it hurt.
I keep seeing hernot as often as I wish. Sometimes I think I hope shell look at me differently one day. Or that Ill grow enough to not feel small beside her. Or maybe, Ill tire of settling for this.
But lately being with her leaves me more sad than happy.
Why is that?
