That’s what I say. But to most people this translates to, “I never, ever want to have a serious relationship or settle down, and I’ll never be a normal person.”

Is it normal, I muse, to base your entire life around compromise? To only ever be able to do things with the approval of another person?

When I say, “I don’t want to get married,” what I mean is: I want to move to New York City. I want to live in a one bedroomed appartment adorned with neon signs, with a fire escape, and a bathroom down the hall.

I want to wake up and watch as the sun turns the skyline into a silhouette, sipping disgusting, dollar-store coffee and huddled up in blankets on my fire escape. I want to run for the subway, shouting apologies over my shoulder as tourists try to ask me for directions. I want to stand in Times Square at two am and watch as the streets continue to bustle as if it’s midday.

I want to be able to move halfway across the world, to feel the rush of living in a city that beats like a heart, without having to ask someone to wait for me until I come back. Because maybe I won’t.

When I say, “I don’t want to get married,” what I mean is: I want to work night shifts. I want to sleep all day and emerge with the nightlife. I want to work under the stars. I want to meet my friends at four am to have my first drink of the night, and their last.

I want to experience the haunting emptiness of late-night public transport, following by the gratifying relief of falling into bed at six am.

I want to spend a year living as a nocturnal creature without having an impact on anyone else’s life.

When I say, “I don’t want to get married,” what I mean is: I want to adopt children. It’s non-negotiable. I want to provide a home and a loving parent for children who would otherwise have neither.

I don’t want to be pregnant. I don’t want biological children. And I don’t want someone else telling me that I do.

Why should I have to wait around for someone else before getting to start my family?

When I say, “I don’t want to get married,” what I mean is: I want to have adventures. I want to disappear for a week to camp in the Scottish highlands. I want to get ice cream at one am. I want to see Moscow.

I want to visit family friends in Australia. Maybe I’ll stay for a week. Maybe a month. Maybe I’ll get a job there, and stay for the rest of my life. The decision’s up to me.

I’ve wanted to hike the Inca trail ever since I was five years old and my mother gave me an atlas. I still want to. More than anything.

I want to have the spontaneous kinds of adventures I only dreamed about having as a child, but I want to have them on my terms.

When I say, “I don’t want to get married,” what I mean is: I don’t want to put planning my life on hold just because one day I might share it with someone else. Marriage is an option, a thing that may or may not happen, but it isn’t something I want. It isn’t something I crave so much it makes my head spin and my chest ache.

I refuse to replace my deep, coveted, existential desires with a want for love. Not even love; just romance; and sex.

A few months ago, I walked home in the dark with my best friend. Above us were stars obscured by the city lights. “I love it here,” he said. “I could stay here forever.”

I asked him if he would. “No, I’ll probably go to London. That’s where my fiancée wants to be. And I guess where all the jobs are.”

I told him about my plans to move to New York, to take a road trip across America, to visit Australia, to go anywhere I could afford and anywhere that would take me. I told him how many children I would have, and when I would have them, and where they would go to school. I told him I might come to London too, if that’s where life takes me.

He always seems content, my friend, when he talks about the future. He wants security, and marriage, and a family of his own. But in that moment I could see it in his eyes: hunger. Hunger for the world the way I described it. Hunger for freedom, and adventure, and just a moment’s escape from conformity.

I wanted to squash his chubby, teenage features between my hands and yell, “It’s your life: you can do whatever you want with it! You don’t have to settle down yet!”

But I didn’t. I said, “You and your fiancée should visit me in New York some time. You can take the bed; I’ll sleep on the fire escape.”

He promised they would, but I could tell from the embers that still burned in his eyes that he wished he could instead sleep on the fire escape.

-

We were so nearly something. Not in a nostalgic, rueful manner – I’m glad I never loved you quite in the way a romantic relationship required; we were horrible communicators, I cared too much about the little things and not enough about the big,

We would have been hopelessly mismatched, we probably narrowly missed a bullet

And you probably would have made me happy.

Why am I writing this? I’m being so selfish again, But your smile is alluring and intriguing and beautiful, and I’ll always love the stormy blue of your eyes, The playful, deliberate way you’d choose your words, Always slightly amused

How do I tell you that I love you, But not quite enough?

And I’ll always love you, always miss you, in that unique, useless kind of way.

I really miss you, damnit,