The Nomadic Londoner

How do I tell them the story of Us? Or rather the story of Not Us? In your eyes our relationship was a phantom one but I felt it all with my everything. We never used labels and never uttered the words ‘I love you’ but it took all my strength to restrain myself from making you hear them each time they floated up to my lips. Each time you’d tell a funny story with your expressive face and dramatic delivery. Each time your Spanish tongue would swallow up an English word and we’d spend minutes trying to unravel it. Each time you became distant, absent-mindedly chewing the inside of your cheek. I wanted to tell you those three words at those moments but I knew you’d recoil at the sound of them and so I remained silent - pushing them back down my throat. But you knew.

We had both been so resistant at first. Solitary planets circling around each other - our orbit never straying until that night; when your arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me in towards you and my hands cradled the back of your neck. Our hips collided, sweaty foreheads pressed together, my right cheek prickled by your beard and then our mouths met and luxuriated in our taste. And as soon as our lips parted the outside world swirled around us with such force even though it had been existing all this time. The bass of the music throbbed through our core, the drunken shouts of the crowd flooded our ears and the strobe lighting cast red and blue shadows across your face. You said something / I said something. After all this time we’ve never managed to agree on what happened next. But what I do know with certainty is that we had our first fight straight after our first kiss. A precursor to how our relationship would unfold.

Our intensity, the unspoken yet utterly overpowering connection we had, was a dangerous thing; pushing us apart back into our opposing corners in the boxing ring and then pulling us back towards one another. We battled hard and then spent lost weekends underneath the bedsheets. It was there that we communicated harmoniously - limbs entwined, our bodies rocking, moving as seamlessly as they did on the dancefloor. Nothing could stop us in the midst of those throes, apart from hunger or that one time we broke my bed. But we were two damaged souls, haunted by the ghosts of past relationships and our upbringing. I wanted so badly to heal from those wounds and not be defined by them but I needed to show you them first and you refused to look. Whilst your pain had been too raw to reveal, it showed itself during rage-filled eruptions at seemingly innocuous moments and harmless words. That unpredictable anger should have scared me the same way it did you, but I only thought of the gentle, funny soul underneath that layer and how much he needed compassion. I knew too well what it felt like to be in conflict with oneself, to feel worthless and defunct and how being constantly abandoned at my lowest points reinforced all of that. So I tried to love you enough for the both of us and in the process left me behind.

Those tumultuous months were full of electrifying dancing; public arguments in the street; passionate sex; fights in clubs; nights of laughter as you cooked me dinner; phone calls saying this time we were over; phone calls as you stargazed thinking of me; fights outside your flat at 3am.