I guess it all began when I started living alone.
I was freer than I had ever imagined before. And between all the parties and Tinder, I had a decent dating life too. I don’t think I was looking for anything serious or consistent. I was just taking in the thrill of getting to know so many people.
A couple of months after my move, I met an Australian journalist who had a knack for being irresistibly charming. He had me hooked right from our first date – hooked to his wit, his compassion, and his captivating smile. Between our discussions on journalism and music, we ended up talking into the night.
After the second date, we started seeing each other almost every day. And before I knew it, I was practically living at his house.
It was amazing how we never ran out of things to do. Watching movies and documentaries, playing Massive Attack vinyls, making drinks, making love, getting drunk, talking for hours and hours… I lost track of time with him.
And I guess, so did he. That was my other favourite thing about him. I loved how reciprocative he could be. From leaving early from work to be with me, to picking out his favourite stuff to play for me, he never shied away from showing me he cared. And that was most beautiful feeling in the world.
I think we both loved each other. It was just hard to say it.
I was 22 and he was 39, and we both knew that meant our time together was bound to end sooner or later.