I started to fall in love once but I had to end it.
The first time I felt I was falling in love was three years ago. Since then I’ve stopped believing I will find love. But not in a sad way, I promise.
I was in my final year of university, and it was sometime around Christmas when I got on to the dating apps. I only lasted about two weeks this time – the same conversations, with guys all over the country, on whom I’d project a potential future, but ultimately end up a waste of time. It only rarely bothered me that I’ve never been in love. Mainly I worried that I’m somehow not capable of feeling that way.
He was the last person I spoke to on there before deleting it, so we swapped social media profiles and kept talking. He was living nearby with his parents, and looking for a job in publishing. He had just finished his Master’s degree in English, which in his own words was a useless degree, which he profoundly enjoyed. We messaged each other quite constantly to begin with – almost every day for over a month. Meanwhile he had found a job as a bartender at a dusty old pub in Christchurch. He said I keep him alive during the early graveyard shifts. The first time we met in person was at a Whetherspoons in January – that was not my first date out of an app, but the only one I actually thoroughly enjoyed. The conversation was flowing, we couldn’t stop laughing most of the time, I remember talking about Masters of Sex and the Bible being the main two things I had spent my weekend on, blushing as I explained that I got onto the tv series because of a film I watched as a research on how to conduct qualitative research for my dissertation.
He didn’t kiss me at the end of the date as we parted, and I remember feeling disappointed and all the way home over thinking why not. We had another date soon after, at the same place – the boy does love a pub and a pint. He didn’t kiss me then either, though we had just as good a time. The third time we came over to my place and watched some anime in my room. He stayed over that night and we talked, and listened to music and cuddled and it felt so natural even though I think we didn’t really discuss it like adults. I loved the way his skin felt on mine, and his raspberry breath reminiscent of energy drinks. And I loved the way he expressed his thoughts, with passion and eloquence. I told him I think lyrics are more important to me that the melodies and he agreed. He introduced me to Bob Dylan and Conor Oberst. Now there’s albums I can never listen without thinking about him and then.
He made me feel like my opinions were interesting, he asked me about the stuff I think about and I’d share. He listened, most of the time, and communication was an important factor for me, knowing that I myself struggle with it – I noted it in my pros/cons list. He was mature enough to bring stuff up which I found embarrassing and couldn’t bring myself to talk about. And made me feel like art somehow, that’s how he saw most things. Often very bleak, and messy, but art nonetheless. Some of his opinions were somewhat unconventional, I suppose, but in a good way, and anyway so are mine. And he was kind too, he loved stopping to chat to strangers outside the club or homeless people, and he always made it a point to greet them when we passed one, because he hated how everyone ignores them and makes them feel invisible, wanted them to feel seen and valued somehow. He likes talking to strangers; he’s good at it too. He especially likes stories, anything that’s true. He walked with a careless confidence, his hair always just the right kind of messy. I felt objectively attracted to the guy, and I guess he quite liked me too. But we never were officially together.
I wrote so many obnoxious poems* during those months, thinking about us.
He also took me to my now favourite pub ever – it’s super eclectic, covered by random pieces on every wall, they have a live music/poetry gig almost every night, and it’s free! The outdoor space has brilliant art and quirky jokes and signposts, and the people are so friendly they’ll just come up and strike a conversation like it’s normal. The beer was good too. I think it was while I was hanging out with him that I started my beer rating list – the name of the beer, the percentage of alcohol, my rating between 1 and 10 and if I remember to add it, the place where I had tried it. I now have over 200 entries on that list, even though I drink far less often than I did then.
He worked a lot of closing shifts after which he often, already somewhat drunk would go to another pub or club. So I understood he didn’t have a lot of free time, but he was so bad at planning ahead, in fact never did. His working pattern meant he was often either working or sleeping whenever I was free. Knowing my schedule is pretty full on, I always tried to plan ahead, so that i could see him and we could spend time together, prefferably cuddling and kissing. But more often than not I’d end up waiting for a response that would come far too late if at all. I knew he liked hanging out with me too, he said so anyway. But he also said he gets a bit overwhelmed by messages so he doesn’t check often. Perhaps I was suffocating him at the time, putting pressure. I’ve never since, wanted to spend so much time with another person. I am now as I was before him – happy in my own company, alone but rarely lonely.
I’ve always secretly wanted to have a song or poem written about me. I am not that type of girl though, so I don’t dare hope. I said that once, when we had transitioned to just friends, actually. And he said: Oh I can write you a poem if you want. But I immediately shook my head snd said no, don’t. I was afraid of what it might say, I’m sure it wouldn’t have been mean, but I was not ready to know. Plus who wants a commisioned poem. Maybe I have to write my own poem about myself, even if it’s shit.
He often chose quite random topics to bring up, music, politics and philosophy, or mundane – anything could be a rant. Sometimes it would be a rant about how good something is – like orange juice as first thing in the morning. It was his breakfast ritual – orange juice, then a coffee and a cigarette. He wasn’t a snob about stuff, from concentrate and instant coffee was fine, but he disagreed with the idea of alcohol free beer and decaf. Said it defeats the purpose. It would be rants like that most of the time but I loved listening, he had such a good speaking voice. That said, I don’t know why exactly. Yeah we shared common interests in art and thought, but the conversations were often intense and complex on his end and I don’t think I felt I had much to add, especially when the topic was far from me. I remember wishing for simplicity. I also feel like I really didn’t say much anyway, because so often I held such intense emotion toward him, that I could just not capture it in words, so I’d just look into his eyes with all this love, and for the first time I had someone to put it into and it was an overwhelming sensation I just didn’t really know how to deal with.
The first time he invited me to meet his friends I said I would but then called it off an hour before going out, because I got worried about it and also didn’t feel like going out. I told him he should say something came up. The next time though, I went and they were quite chill and I really enjoyed chatting to them. When he was at the bar getting more drinks I asked about how often they hang out, and they said with him it’s always in waves – sometimes every night and other times silence for months, he’ll just disappear. Johnny said he wouldn’t say they know each other very well, they just end up hanging out together sometimes.
– But even so, he’s probably my closest friend, and the one who knows me best out of everyone.
broken, and mended 