SEARCH RESULTS

I sift through my memories.  Is it this LOML, or that one? L for 'love', 'loss', or 'loser' of my life? There’s the boy when I was nineteen; I bought his favourite film and (don’t ask) chocolates after three dates, and he said “Thanks! I’m going to take these with me to beg for my ex back. This is her favourite film too! We watched it together.”. Not cool. Or, my first influencer — a sickening habit, but then isn’t everyone an ‘ online personality ’, a ‘ creative ’, these days? Same. We went out a few times and I phoned weekly seeing if we could go on another. (To be fair, very much my mum’s influence. She inspired most of my phone calls). No - this is the one. The man I met in the middle of the road spitting drunk. He’s beautiful, tall, and built like a God — not like a Jesus god, like a morally-grey, sexy demigod, like  Achilles . He reads the same books as me. (Now... Because I read them after he mentioned them.) He’s open in all his thoughts. He has sisters, so automatically he must respect women. For some background, we literally texted for about a week before I made the choice to get a taxi from Clapham to Belsize at 4am and meet him. He is an important figure in the succession of my obsessions because of his impact. We met at a time when I had more money and freedom than ever. So much so, I am sat now in a £200 hoodie I bought from when I tried to carve myself in his image. To be fair, he was a narcissist, so it might’ve worked. I arrive in Belsize. All I have is the postcode and his live location. With these two things, even a child would be able to find their way. But no. Not me. I wander the streets of Belsize for  half an hour,  trying to find where this sodding stranger is. Should I have left?  Yes.  Did I?  What do you think? On brand as ever, I phone him 10 times. No reply.  Am I about to get murdered?  At least I’m going doing what I love. Stalking men. With no sense of self-preservation in sight, I send another text.  Where u? It comes out as:  whdrt ?yi?? I am magic. Eventually, he drags himself away from the harem- I mean... party. “Fuck! You called a lot.” “You  wanker . I’ve been out here for  an hour .” “It’s been, like, 10 minutes.” “No it  hasn’t—“… He leans in to kiss me. I swing back sharply, “ Fuck  no!” “Shut up.” We kiss. Magic. This moment is important because I genuinely fantasised about it for months. Years. A man telling me to shut up. Honestly, yeah, it got a little romanticised in my head. I read a lot of books, shoot me? Romantasy books have a lot to answer for, and I'm coming for you first SJM . A couple of weeks later, after his friend has texted from his phone,  he doesn’t want to text you  and I take it as a silly joke, I get him a job. Let that sink in. I wish I was joking. So does my dad. He’s struggling, lost, and handsome. No, he’s the heartbreak prince and I am the jester dancing around hoping he smiles at me.  Omg, he glanced at me!!  He works in a pub and somehow, it’s the hottest thing ever. I visit the pub. Luckily; he wasn’t on shift. I visit again, make my friend go in (sorry Maja). He isn’t there. Looking back, he probably didn’t even have the job. Just kidding, I know he did. I screenshotted it from his BeReal before I knew BeReal was a snake for that kind of thing. Nowadays, so is WhatsApp – beware. He sends his CV in, and somehow, they wrangle a way to help him with—deep breath— a 27k job. Post interview, of course, but  come on , what is wrong with me? (So much more than we mere mortals could know.) It gets worse. He  declines the job.  and leaves the country. So, naturally, I buy a dress for his brothers’ wedding. I’m obviously going to be invited? That’s a normal thing to think? Notably, it’s also in another country. He gets back home (not native to London. Shock.) and promptly sleeps with 3 girls. And tells me about it. He also drops in that his ex is pregnant, and she thinks it’s his. She phones from the ambulance. I take this as a sign our stars are aligned, because  he’s  calling  me.  He’s opening up about these struggles  to me . So hot. The dress is stunning. Tight, lilac silk with a feathered trim. It has its moment - just not at the wedding. Obviously not at the wedding. Next thing you know, we stop talking and I’m seeing someone new. He’s actually on his way over and I’m  convinced  he’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend — and then jobless boy calls.  It’s a sign.  I am no-one’s girlfriend. (As of then). I get him another job. And a place to live. And make his bed for him. And move him in, folding all his clothes. And buy him  another birthday present  (yes there were two.) Obviously. We are now estranged. Yes, I've learnt my lesson about foreign men. It's always a beautiful thing when a man leads you to magic. No - I don't mean love. I mean spells. I mean this: If you can zoom in on those words, honestly don't. I don't remember what it said. Gives me the ick For reference I don't make a habit of doing this on a specific person anymore. Half the time, it just messes me up. Yolo. I'm in my flat, post-photoshoot job. The outfit is very cute and very not me , so I won't be putting it on again soon. I make the most of it. It's a red mini skirt, and a top that's more of a suggestion. It's by an Australian brand - with their weather, they don't need clothes. I scroll through apps, replying to date requests at random. Sadly this does seem to be a habit, but it's how I meet the L('s)OML, so a win is a win, right? One replies - and he's kind of woof and kind of questionable. Lani says go, that he looks like a 27-year-old-hot-sleepover-buddy slash husband, so the leather trench is on and I'm on the way to a cute pub called The Fox & Hounds . Unfortunately, I am known to the staff here. I somehow always tend to be there with men... I swear it's just because I really like it. I arrive, and he cycles by me. Sorry, but ick. Even more of an ick watching him fiddle with the mechanism. Romantically, we're both an ick - I stand in the shadows too scared to approach. When I follow him in, exactly one panicked-lani-call later, he is sat staring directly at the entrance. It's a little unsettling. But, meow, he's fine . We have a very charming time discussing how many celebrities he knows. I accidentally kick him maybe four times. He has blue eyes and he uses them to their full capacity - he doesn't blink. Not even once. He gently caresses my hands as we play NYT connections. It's intimate until we're both stunned to find out the English grad is shit at english. Sent to my mum, the superior quizzer, while he goes to the toilet. He walks me home, and doesn't kiss me. I love it. On our second date, I really commit. It's perhaps one of my hottest outfits ever. Brown thigh highs, knee high boots - he's 6'3. He can take it - loose off-the-shoulder, shag-me sweater. Moschino belt. Black mini skirt. Big, 80's hair. He loves it. I'm not going to tell you how much - but he does. We head to Below Stone Nest, and it rains. He whips out an umbrella, because he checked the weather. It's JUST for me. Yum. At this point, I'm four cocktails in and giving him all kinds of eyes. He's giving my mouth the same. It's a beautiful thing. He puts his jacket on the floor for me to sit on, as we drink through the whole menu. Big on tasting new things, I guess. We head to this underground pub called St. Moritz, and for once, it really is magic. He tells me his hands are cold, so I offer mine to warm him up. I still think about how he absent-mindedly stroked his thumb over my knuckles. He nestles in next to me, for warmth you sickos , and we kiss. You will undoubtably see this as a scene in my book. We meet Ruby and her boyfriend, and he offers his services in fluent Russian for her. Jaw - only the jaw - on the floor. He speaks many languages, he explains, holding my coat, staring into my soul as he speaks to her. I'm in heat. We leave at an ungodly hour for a second date, and we're both flying. He, weirdly, gets four Maccies wraps of the day. He tries to get me to eat them and it's - sweet and sour - rank. We stomp around London chomping at the bit, trying to find a way back to his flat. I never said I had common sense, or willpower. He stays at mine, and he's definitely been in this situation before. I find it really, really, hard to care. After that, my outfits are off the charts. Red mini dress, kitten point heels, little black cardi that, my best friend's brother assures me, shouts WIFE. We have drinks and dinner in Notting Hill, and it goes downhill. He's horrendous at texting before the date, and I have been known to vehemently hate that . I let it go. We're at The Pelicon, and it's rammed. He points out two girls he's had a threesome with. I sip my drink. We talk an ungodly amount about Tiktok, but I am an expert, so I let it go, again. He makes me sit outside, in the rain, in my delicious little dress. Even the security guard gets it - he goes inside to find me a seat. And finds one! I get his number. Just kidding, but I should have. We go to dinner at Canteen. He had given his number so that we could definitely go, as I had said I wanted to, and it was charming. He gets a wine I like, even though he doesn't. We share plates. He is upset it's not Italian - though, notably, I had only said "I think they do a pizza" . I feel, for the most part, like I'm at a very odd Eggheads interview. He questions literally everything I say. Even goes as far to fact-check and google if Milton is Early Modern. I actually believed for a long time after the date that I was, in fact, stupid. Lani has since told me Milton is EM , and has thus restored balance in the universe. Ultimately, he's still hot, so I unbutton the cardigan after every glass of wine. When he makes me laugh, or happy, I undo one. When he quizzes me on the construction of cast-iron pans and how, precisely, to make lasagna, I do two up. It comes off all the same. I got impatient and hot. It does nothing . Is he gay? He was frothing over seeing my shoulder two days prior, but doesn't meet my eyes now. It smells like an ex is back in the picture. I let it go. Why didn't you kiss me? I don't know how I feel . I think about getting his Soundcloud banned in revenge. I resist. Growth. We still speak, and I'm more of a consultant now. I listen to an uncomfortable amount of his garage DJ'ing to help his base grow. Weird vibes. Even weirder - I meet his DJ friend (on a date, yes, but who's checking?). This one is affectionately refered to as vinyl DJ. He is open, if not proud, to explain his best friend is a self-proclaimed 'Volcel'. Yes, like incel. A voluntary incel. I have since decided DJ's are not the right ones to date. Did that stop me from using a spell to get Hot DJ to text me? No it did not. Did it work? Yes. But I had blocked him. Made it a bit awkward, actually. Now, this is a good one. An influencer. Stunning. (It's not intentional it just seems to happen). He’s got… well, yeh… definitely has hair... He’s honestly quite short. He’s really, incredibly funny. Nice eyes. Blue in that way blue-eyed people always open their eyes super wide. Most importantly: he’s obsessed with me. I say jump, he says which cliff? He reads my work. He brings me to his flat. He serves me champagne. He tells me how great at makeup I am — not in a homoerotic way (I don't think...). In a halloween makeup way. He gets a taxi, across London (sound familiar?) to the club I’m at so he can say hi. (Later, we say hi on the famous sofa. Sorry, Balham girlies). Not only does he do this, but queues for half an hour to get in. Then, once he’s in, he texts (again). where are you x I’ve left darling haha what i’m at the tube if you’re quick x He was indeed quick. Fair play. A very funny photo of my friends and I came from this experience, so I can't complain. "Lily, arch your back!" He shouts in Balham underground. Lily is about to throw up. Lily arches. Slay, Lily. "Arch your back!" He has since told my ex’s best friend that he is now, weirdly, quite close with, that I am ‘cold’. This friendship was borne from me. Obviously, I don’t know this for certain. But with a hook and a line, you have a rod. It ’s a pretty damn good guess, given they had never texted prior to him saying: hey mate do you know Sophie slape haha yeah why we’ve been on a few dates just wondering what your thoughts on her are haha He did not reply immediately, so obviously the lovely influencer went into a panic. In his defence this was quite charming. Something about men caring just  gets  me, you know? Like seeing them with children. Stunning stuff. With his head on my lap, in the middle of a film, beers in hand, I felt like Bridget Jones meeting Mr. Darcy. Everything was   quite   charming.  “Why are you never nice to me?” Apart from me, apparently.  “What do you mean?” I say. “You’re just so sarcastic. Go on. Say something nice.” I take a sip. Think for a moment. “No.” “Can I come over for dinner tomorrow?” “Sure.” And he does. Perfectly on time. He puts on the hoodie I’m wearing now, the one I bought to make another guy fancy me and makes me (I was completely willing) listen to his podcast. I wear his jumper that I plan to steal. (It doesn't go that far).  Because I’m trying to  be nice,  I listen. I also listen to him tell me his 10-step-skincare-(and fake-tan) routine. Then I make dinner: sweet and sour fried chicken, with a creamy stir fry and homemade sourdough. I put vanilla extract in the oven so the flat smells of baking (hot, right? Oh - you think that’s weird? Well... you're wrong). Tucked up in bed later, I even admit some secrets to him. But first- he admits some to me . Like the tattoo he got, on his actual body, with actual ink, that is exactly what I suggested he got the day prior. I took inspiration from lover number one, so I remember this clearly. And there it was, in black and beige and wrapped in cling film. He asks me to help adjust it, and my wicked grin isn't even subtle. Maybe I am magic? Back to my secret. “I saw you on hinge and I X’d your profile because it would make me pop up on your feed, and I knew you’d like me.” I say. Nice hack for all you Hinge-goers. “And you did.” I giggle as he leans over and sets a timer for 10 minutes. This is how long he has promised not to rib me about it. While he’s forced into silence, I also admit I had messaged him a year ago after seeing a TikTok of his. And he had aired me. Now, now he is practically  bursting  with the need to laugh and go in on one, given comedy was his suit of choice. He waits politely the full 10 minutes. He also grabs me and pins me down (hot) so that I can’t lock myself in a room to hide from the shame. Still — my point is I was nice. Nicer still, I had planned to make him a birthday cake (I like to give men gifts - give me a BREAK) because no one had ever given him one. It was, specifically, the cake Harry receives in  The Philosopher's Stone;  I still remember the poor spelling, pink and green theme. I was going to change Harry with, well… client confidentiality. The next day I wake up. Draw him a bath, with incense and bath salts and a soft soak while I make him breakfast. It’s a full English with all the trimmings, and honestly, was some of my best work. Then, for two weeks we don’t speak. I’m confused. I text, and he admits he went on a coffee date with a girl he used to see. He  super  fancies her. The moral of the story is - you should always be mean to men. Once you start being nice, they get bored. No one likes the nice girl. Well, sometimes they do, but they’re probably ugly. Or boring. Or mature. He tells my ex’s bff that I ‘never opened up to him’. I can’t help but wonder what he wanted, to be my therapist? How much more information did he require? Did he have a side hustle in the government? These days, I am trying to be  nice  more often. Life truly is too short. (Unless they deserve it). I meditate. I reflect. I delete phone numbers (thank God). I  don't  make hoodies in designs they'd like. I am proud to admit I haven’t stalked any hinge’s, checked any Instagram profiles (or following lists… if you know, you know), or scrolled through my Instagram views. I am not proud to admit this is only because I’m seeing someone with good chat, and that makes all previous obsessions fade into nothingness.

It's the permanent, gut-wrenching feeling of watching the spinning-top in Inception's ending sequence. Will it topple over? Are we still in a dream, can I wake up and it all be over? It's not a dream. It's actually 4am in your hospital bed where you haven't slept because the woman opposite fluctuates between hysterics and vomiting. It sounds wrong. Like oil is forcing itself up her throat, gurgling. It reeks. One metre away, the blue paper curtain surrounding your bed is thrown back. An outline of a woman - hopefully a nurse - is stood. Outcome. “Put this on,” she says, dropping what must be a hospital gown and underwear onto the bed. “You having a colonoscopy.” I freeze. My white silk pajamas suddenly feel like armor. “ What ? A colonoscopy? I can’t—I’m not supposed to have one. I’ve been told I’m too sick.” She doesn’t respond, already turning away. “I will go get your socks.” My head shakes violently, my whole body trembling from the last twenty-four hours of hell. If I shake any harder, my head might spin clean off. The woman is very confused by this. I can't tell if she just doesn't speak much english, hates me, or doesn't know what i'm on about. Everyone is still asleep, the lights in our ward off. "Put it on. I come back with socks." I most definitely do not put it on. I stay firmly in my hospital bed, sheet covering me as much as possible. She returns. She is not happy. "Why have you not changed?" She is a scary woman. She leaves the socks. I change. It's hard to get the socks over my legs because they're those plane compression ones for long flights, and i've been growing my nails out for my graduation. I was going to paint them the night before. I had settled on red. My dress and gown are still hanging, waiting for me, in my flat. They are collecting dust. I haven't slept because the cannula in my arm, fitted in a different hospital last night, is painful and I can't bend it at all. Throbbing. I'm boiling hot. The woman to my right has had her ' nurse. help ' button on for ages, loudly complaining about how her bag has split again and soaked her bed. Bag as in stoma, and soaked as in, she's lying in her own shit and piss. The smell, again, is less than ideal, but the sympathy I feel for her overwhelms any self-pity. It's horrible to hear one person, let alone three, in various kinds of pain for hours on end. The guilt goes round and round - that i'm healthier than them, at the moment. That i'm complaining about having a colonoscopy, when they don't have colon's to check. Fishing. This moment, this day, frankly only gets worse. You are flocked with people who stare at you, not introducing themselves, and furiously writing in their notepads whenever you speak. It takes three nurses to take twelve tubes of blood out your arms. There are so many holes, so many bruises, if they let you out now you'd be confused for a heroin addict. This is because they were fishing in your veins. Fishing is when they put the needle in and wiggle it around—apparently, it’s malpractice. They tell me this as they’re doing it. The absurdity almost makes me laugh. Almost. Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner - for the intolerant. You're also caught eating a potato that they offered, ordered, cooked, and delivered to you. One of the many angry nurses flings back your blue curtain (which they adamently always try to leave wide open) and points an accusing finger. "You having a colonoscopy! Why you eating!" They all must hate you. You don't know what to say. "You gave this to me?" You ask, wide eyed. Scared. Honestly, so scared. You don't eat for the rest of the day, nor do you have a colonoscopy. The waiting game is terrifying. A weird kind of russian roulette. When the curtain is flung back this time, will it reveal A) nurse who hates me, B) colonoscopy doctor, or C) my crying mother? We both cry a lot these days. Being a strong, independent woman is totally overrated. Let's go back a bit earlier. How I got here. It's 10am Sunday morning. Your phone is ringing for the third time. "Hello?" "Hello, it's Professor H-," she's quick with her words. Not sharp, just precise. "You need to get into hospital now." "Oh. Like, today?" She explains which hospital you need to get into 2 hours away, and how to get through the NHS triage quickly. "You'll have to say you were driving past and suddenly had a flare up, which probably won't be untrue. Make sure you tell them everything you told me; the incontinence, the vomiting, the agony etcetera, ok?" Everything is absolutely not ok. "Today?" I look to my mum, sat on my right. My graduation is in two days. "Pack a bag, cosy clothes. Maybe a book." I'm confused, so I repeat her again, like I might be stupid. A parrot. "A bag?" Now the tears are coming. This is big. Bigger than I thought. Two days earlier, I had met with this consultant for the first time. She took some bloods and did an ultrasound on me. Whatever she had seen was bad enough that I was now being phoned on a Sunday morning to pack a bag and holiday with the NHS. "You can't go to your graduation. No exceptions." She pauses. "We need to get you into hospital now, as soon as possible, and onto steroids." Now dad is the parrot. "Steroids? What for?" She explains briefly the inflammation in my gut is less than ideal. She will explain more once I get admitted by the NHS, then transferred to her specialist unit in another nearby hospital. Whats important is that I get onto a lot of drugs as soon as I can, before something worse happens. What she insinuates here, unsaid but ominously looming, are big words like Cancer. Strictures. Surgery. Death. I can't speak over my tears, which flow freely now. How bad was it? The devastations keep piling up. This morning, I didn't think I could handle doing a colonoscopy. An MTV, welcome to my crib, if you will. Now - now I was meant to stay in hospital? In the middle of no where? Alone? With my body acting like it is? I do. I pack a bag, tears pouring down my face. My brother is gaunt - he thinks the worst immediately. He is relieved - actually glad - to hear I am only being hospitalised. Ultimately, it is better than death, but still not ideal. And it's hard, to be at a party when I feel like an open wound. Recently, I was handed a life sentence: Crohn’s Disease. A lifelong, incurable condition that had been eating away at me for years, unnoticed, unchecked. But before I tell you about the diagnosis, let me take you back—because diagnosing yourself isn’t a straight path. It’s a labyrinth of missteps, dismissals, and dead ends. Spoiler: it took five specialists, a homeopath, two dieticians, and a weeklong stint in a hospital two hours from home to finally get an answer. A year ago, I wrote a similar essay to this one for my English degree at King's College London. I was told - by my consultant, one of the best if not the best IBD specialist professor in the country - that completing my degree in the state my body was in was a feat I should not have been able to achieve. In that non-fiction piece, I blamed my severe anxiety for the extreme pain I was in. I would also like to reserve some blame for the university themselves, who as an institution gave me no support beyond "defer". Melanie (my mother) didn't raise no bitch - and this bitch wasn't giving up without a fight. Besides, what use did I have in delaying my finals till August, when I would still be in extreme pain from a chronic disease just now in the summertime? Anxiety was the latest culprit in a long, long line of explanations for my symptoms; menstruation, hormones, dehydration, alcohol, hereditary issues, gluten intolerances, lactose intolerances, stress, enzyme resistance... the list goes on, but somehow - it always seemed to root back to me. I was doing it to myself, controlled or not. This had, and had up until 8am this morning, always been a point of contention for me. There was an underlying level of guilt that my own indulgences, such as alcohol and gluten, were causing my pain. If I could just control myself - stop going out so much, stop consuming, I wouldn't have a problem. This was particuarly so with alcohol, and as a teenager I had certainly guzzled a bit too much. Yet, still, it felt unfair that I alone among my peers had to suffer for something so many do. My personal essay on anxiety still stands strong. I do suffer. I can say so with particular emphasis on my life now, post-hospital-stint, because it's midnight and I'm suffering from insomnia due to the buffet of pills I am on. But, perhaps my anxiety has not caused this. That diagnosis is not the root of this problem. Crohn's Disease - or colitis - is an inflammation of the large intestine (see also: bowel, colon). For me, it appears randomly across the organ as severe inflammation and can cause several other major symptoms: ulcers, diarrhoea, nausea, vomitting, weight-loss, pain, joint issues, incontinence, exhaustion, insomnia, etc. I have experienced all of these and then-some in the lead up to my hospitalisation. It was notoriously difficult to diagnose without being hospitalised - for testing, that is - and so like the very silly anxious little girl I am, I never got diagnosed. Eight years of suffering. I can recall, vividly, waking up in the night with the usual fear of incontinence from the mounting pain in my gut. I run to the bathroom of my two-bed flat. The diarrhoea is sudden and the pain suffocating. I dig out the insert of my small bathroom bin, one of the ones with a foot pedal, and start throwing up from the agony. This doesn't take seconds to process, like how I imagine morning sickness to be, I am in there for an hour. I'm fully awake. I'm exhausted. The thought of food, of ever eating again, repulses me. In the mirror, I am gaunt. Now that I'm standing though, the process is kicked off again. An incomplete pass , that is what this is called. It can happen up to three, four, five times. Eventually, I crawl (occasionally literally) back into bed. I'm freezing cold and shaking despite the heating and layers of blankets. I pull them up to my chin and find the energy to text my mum, the blue light burning my eyes to the point of tears. I am so fully awake I know I will get no sleep. Despite this, I will wake up for my lectures. I attend my classes. Sometimes, I even drag myself to the gym. Being diagnosed, hearing the words - Crohn's Disease  - wasn't the relief many told me it would be. It was a nightmare I lived, live , with. I see it behind my eyes with every blink. The woman sobbing as they draw the markers on her to be fitted with a stoma bag in black ink. Blink. Forcing myself to an in-person examination, where I have to beg to be allowed to leave during the 3 hours in case I need the toilet. Initially, they say no , because I didn't request it at the start of the academic year. I wasn't this sick at the start of the academic year. Blink . Opposite me, another human screaming every hour of every day that they're trying to kill me! Blink . My friend telling me not to put this disability on job applications, because they won't hire you if they think you'll be too difficult . Blink . A man on a balcony telling me you look beautiful, you should try modelling , as I eat half the size of the meal he does because I'll be too sick otherwise. He knows I'm sick, have lost so much weight. He says it anyway. Every time I go back for an infusion, the trauma hits me like a truck in a way I still don't know how to understand. I won't, not for a long time, because my hospital fired all the psychologists. When we get a new one, the backlog will be hellfire. I walk through those hospital doors, and my personality is wiped away entirely. I stare into oblivion. I cry uncontrollably as soon as I'm in the infusion chair, regardless of the fact I'm beyond used to the pain by now. For the entire day, I lose my voice. Can only sit and listen to music - the world beyond noise-cancelled out. I don't know who Sophie Slape is, because it isn't me. My specialist tells me that, in the state my body was in, I wouldn't have even been able to think. My body was diverting all my energy, all my blood, to my gut in an effort to fight itself. I was literally tearing myself apart. I still am. I will for the rest of my life, if I don't have a bi-monthly injection of the god-send Infliximab. (In this household, we stan biologics). This struck me, though, when she told me. The validation I felt hearing from a professional that I wasn't going mad -- because I felt that. Researching for my dissertation on the origins of female mistranslation and misrepresentation in ancient greek literature was simply one of Heracles modern impossible tasks. Reading hundreds of pages of criticism, research, translation, and theory to the tune of absolutely zero brain cells functioning made me feel like a mad woman. This is of course on top of all the other reading and writing I had to produce for my degree. Thanks, Kings. I return to my earlier grievance with my university. There is no consideration for chronic illness, for serious bereavement, for any kind of severe physical suffering. When I asked about special consideration—pointing out that students with dyslexia, for example, receive accommodations—the response was, “How would we decide who is sick enough?” The answer, I think, is clear. If you’ve had to literally kill yourself to graduate—missing your ceremony because you were hospitalized—perhaps a mark or two for spelling errors could be spared. The system is archaic, outdated, and frankly cruel. One week is not enough to grieve a family loss and write a four-thousand-word essay. Two weeks of mitigation won’t magically cure incontinence, pain, or nausea enough to sit a three-hour exam on Paradise Lost . More must be done. The system needs to change. It’s not impossible to accommodate severe illness—if a student can provide evidence of repeated hospitalizations, blood tests showing severe inflammation, or a diagnosis like mine, that should be enough. But for now, I’m left with the scars of a battle fought alone, and the hope that one day, no one else will have to fight it the same way.

Now that my prefrontal-cortex has finally developed, aloof phrases completely resonate with me. Along with everything that's meant for you will find you , and, if not more annoyingly, if it's meant to be, it will be . Recently, post-diagnosis, I was doing more crying than laughing. Now that things are good again, and the only way really is up, I can reflect. Given my love life is thriving, it seems only right to recap from the not so hot times. It's my first date ever. I'm twenty-three (almost, not March quite yet). I've spent the last two hours picking out quite frankly the most bland outfit ever: green skirt, green rollneck, boots. I look like a tree. Unfortunately, I think it looks good. I wear my mums leather jacket with a fur lining, as it's the only coat I have with a hood. "It is completely pissing it down ," I say over the phone. "Honestly, you'll be fine. Is he there yet?" That's my best friend, keeping me company. Pre-date phone calls will later become an anxious habit. Don't lie, you do it too. Makes you look less like a loser if you're on your phone, in high demand, right? Right. Stood outside the bar in the now torrential rain - it looked like no, he was not. s.sl ape: Hey are you here? Hello? ? I think i'm gonna go Are you on the tube? "I'll give it 5 more minutes," I say, 20 minutes later from the inside of a nearby 24-hour shop. The security guard looks a bit sad for me. Same. My friend lets out what can only be described as an exasperated sigh. She's already told me to sack it off, that if he really liked me, he'd be ten minutes early. Minimum. Doubtlessly, it was a bad start. But it was my first date - it surely couldn't get worse? Notably, yes it can. Everything can always get worse. Only say this phrase if you are a masochist, sadist, or a wilfully ignorant young adult in your first long term relationship (i'm looking at you). "Oh my god! He's texted!" will: walking now will be 4 "A man of many words..." I roll my eyes. It clearly wasn't his fault I looked like a drowned rat, there must've been tube trouble. The date was so on. He walks around the building, and from my viewpoint I can see him go inside. At least he didn't lie about his height (subtle foreshadowing). I let him grab a table and sit for minute or two so I look less-so like i've stood here waiting like a loser. The waitress approaches. "Drinks?" I glance at the menu to be polite, already knowing what I'm going to have. This was in my polite days where I never wanted to seem too-much. Too eager. Eager is so in. Better shags too. Smiling, I say "Please -" "She'll have the red wine," Ex- cuse me? 'She will have the salad', will she fuck? He glances to the waitress, back down, up again, "actually, we both will. Bottle of the pinot." The waitress looks at me. I look at her. We look at my date. Will looks out the window. "Uhh.. Ok..." she takes it down with a final look to me. I am still trying to collect flies in my mouth. Because I am too scared of him not fancying me, I let it go. (I'm good at that). The date continues rather uneventfully. Except, of course, Will ordering fries and trying to force feed me them. "No, thanks, I ate before I came." I say, smile in place. Really good rival for a doll at this point. "Just have a few," he grabs a handful, "honestly just try some, I can't eat them all." I eat the fries. Oh , and lest we forget what he said when I first sat down. "Sophie, right?" "Hi! Yes, such a pleasure." Smile. "You look nothing like your picture!" I am, understandably, taken aback. "You what?" He backtracks. "No, like, you look different in real life." "I got that bit." He waves his hands exaggeratedly as he digs his grave deeper. "Like, better in real life. Nothing like your pictures"-he puts his hands up in a placating-a-bear manner-"Though of course, your pictures are really nice too." Smile. "Right." Then the wine fiasco happened. And the fries. Embarrassingly, an hour in he gets up (launches himself) from his seat to use the toilet. I check my makeup - only to find my teeth are literally stained red. With bits of sediment. All that smiling really shot myself in the foot, hey? He comes back and waves the waitress over. It's the same lady we started with. "You okay?" she says. She doesn't look at Will. "All good." He chirps, thoughtfully. Don't need a thought in my head with this man. Lucky me! "Just the bill." Hold on - we were getting the bill? Was I being dismissed? Waitress looks at me. We have another moment. Frankly, I felt far more connected to her than anyone else at this point. She gets the machine, puts it down in front of him only. "We only take card." My date is quite happy to pay, and I don't bother to offer. Given that I didn't order anything of my own volition, it was only fair. "Thank you," I can't help saying. Besides, can it get worse? We go to leave and I shrug my sopping wet coat on as he shifts on his feet. Then - all of a sudden, and I mean genuinley, lightning fast, he is beside my neck. Vampire? Probably. Do they have vampires in Sydney? He strokes my hood in a distressing way, given his closeness. "Is this real fur?" I choke. What? "Uh. No... No I don't like real fur." We leave it and head outside, and luckily it has stopped raining. He tells me how much he likes me (he's got over my ugly photos, then?). He takes a step way too far into my personal space, again . "Are you sure it isn't real fur?" He pets me, a lot like a dog. "It feels like rabbit." Fuck it. He was clearly a serial killer. "Yes. Yes it's real." Then - a moment of moral lucidity, "but it's my mum's from the eighties." "Oh thank GOD. I HATE when girls-" he is specific about it only being women "-wear FAKE fur. It's so cheap and povo." Yeh, that was the final straw. I never speak to Will again despite his attrative australian (likely fake) heritage. (He didn't even have the accent, so where was the joy in that?). I also never let a man order for me again, you'll be surprised to hear. Now, I'm in Aqua Kyoto. Yes, this should've been the first sign. The second should've been it was empty. The third: his card machine business. I know what you're thinking. That sounds quite cool! You know I love a creative, an entrepreneur. Someone who backs themselves. What I haven't told you is that it wasn't his business. He just worked there. We spend a good hour discussing the card machine, because I innocently, if not naively, asked, "Oh? Card machine's - what's that like?" If you require machine advice, please, ask me. Then, he's up and he's off. "Let's go to the next place." Rule 1: never go to a second location. We walk to a pub. It's cute and on Carnaby Street. It's also packed with sweaty men screaming about Liverpoooooooool! "I'm going to the toilet quick." he says in his American accent. "Cool, I'll get drinks?" "I'll have two pints." Right. Ok. The American accent is a necessary point, because he's from Surrey. Born and bred. Absolutely no connection to American whatsoever. Ok, that's a bit of a lie. He did spend two months there. A whole two months. He's just method acting? Probably, maybe? I'm halfway through my wine, talking about my friend Eleanor who I love, when he cuts me off. You should know he asked about my friends. "Can we talk about something... significant?" Here we go again. I'll bite. "Like what?" "Like... I don't know. Pick something." Was I a jester dancing for her king? When should I put the clown hat on? "Ok. So how do you feel about the universe?" He ignores me. Gets up. "Oh... are we off?" "Yeh. I've finished my drink." He notices mine isn't done. "Drink yours, we're late." I should've asked what we were late to, given he was winging the date on a hope and a prayer. Instead, I drink up. I needed to head home soon, anyway, it was 9:45. It couldn’t get worse anyway, right? "If you'd worn trainers with that outfit, you'd be perfect." Here we go again. When would men stop commenting on my style? This was actually a good outfit, too: leather flares, boots, lacey bodysuit, and gray sleeveless cardigan. Trust me on this. "Right well I wore heels because I'm not eighteen?" "But that would've been hotter." "So you like children?" "Don't be stupid." "You like women that infantilise themselves?" He ignores me. Goes mute. Was he on speaking strike? Should I mime? (Rough foreshadowing). In his defence, when we walk up to the front of an underground jazz club's secret door and the bouncer nods him and I in, it is very attractive. I can feel the people queuing burning glares in my head, and I love it. There's a spring in my step. I like him again. "Let's sit by the music? Better view?" I smile, proper now, and nod. This is exciting. I love places like this; uncommon, interesting, unique clientele. We sit as a man who looks like Rory Charles Graham begins to play the cello. "Here," Tom says, showing me his phone. In a very on-brand, typical man way, we are going through his photo app. I'm seeing pictures of his trip to St. Moritz. This has come about because I told him I loved photography. Importantly, I am nice. "These are really beautiful." I ohh and ahh at every single one. "Yeh it was an insane experience." Really. Skiing? Insane? Revolutionary... "Here-" I say, "let me show you when I was in..." "Wait." I pause. Look at him questioningly. He waves over a waitress. "Negroni, please." Oh. No honestly I didn't want one! "So... anyway," I begin again, tilting my phone toward him. "Can you shut up?" Huh? I am in shock, naturally. My phone is still showing pictures of Osaka. I frown. "What do you mean?" Dates are for talking, are they not? "Just shut up so we can hear the music. We'll talk after." Oh, fuck no. I get up and head to the toilet. Sit down for a moment. Or ten. Collecting myself. I shoot off a bunch of texts, rapid fire, so that when I go back out my phone goes off repeatedly. Then, I stare myself in the eye in the mirror under the bathrooms dim lights. Am I overreacting? He seems alright... I decide to let it go, but go home still. It gives him another shot at chivalry. I am nothing if not kind. When I get back out, he has another negroni. Guess who still doesn't have another drink... Not that it's his job to ask if I want one, but the thought would be nice? "I'm gonna head," I say. "Wait for me to finish my drink?" he asks, I nod. We go outside. "Thank you-" I begin. "Yeh, no, super nice meeting you. I'd like to see you again." "Yeh-" I smile, "Sure. Do you mind getting a taxi home with me? It's quite late and I'm worried about the journey because I've been drinking... I'm happy to pay for your uber." "No." What. "What?" "I said, 'no'." "Right... why?" "I can't be bothered. Get a taxi yourself." He shows me his screen, "I've booked mine." Great. OK. That's fine. But, no, he continues: "if you head to the street you'll probably catch a cab." His taxi arrives, and oddly, I'm grateful. I know whose number is going straight into my archives... I am well and truly spitting drunk. I walk the wrong way to the tube twice, then head down the exit route instead of the path to Piccadilly. In my defence, they looked super similar with my eyes all blurry like that. And, you know what? It's hilarious. Everything he does is funny, and he's totally sweet. We're bent over doubled laughing and I'm about 4 minutes away from missing the last train home. By all intents and purposes, I should've been kidnapped. I suppose a big part of my survival is that he should've been 6 foot 2. A man of that height probably would be able to abduct me (so you think I'm skinnnyyyyyy). Luckily, he lied about his height. Let me take you back! I'm on the train to London Bridge texting my friend Henry. If you're reading this, hi Henry, this is your debut. I dont want to goooooo well, at least you look nice? but im so tired I give him the recap and the classic name & place in case I go missing. A right of passage to dates for any woman. Dark times, man. I text Henry again when we arrive at the pub. It takes me over 45 minutes to send this, because I'm certain my date, Tom, has no idea what's going on. I walk out the tube and can't find him. Round the back , he says. What, like, just head down this dark alley? No thanks. I call him, knowing I'd get lost trying to find the dark alley anyway. "Yeh so, can you just come to me? I don't know this area well." "Neither." I pause. Henry pauses too. So you've picked someone not English again? he texts. Classic me - but no - he is English, just not London. That's now two lies (they're really stacking up). His second was that, when I eventually found Tom, I was staring him dead in the eye - because he's about 5'6. He's also wearing white running shoes with black skinny jeans (ick) and uses them to run away from me . He heads to the pub like we're late for our personal invite to tea with the King, and I have to jog to keep up. "Are we training for a marathon?" "I've actually done a marathon!" He says, four steps ahead. This isn't an idiom, he's literally that far in front of me. He has to shout over his shoulder. "If I'd known I was going for a jog I wouldn't have worn boots!" He doesn't get it. Luckily, he has to stop for the traffic light (notably there is no traffic, but thank god he slowed down). I catch my breath. "Jesus, who's chasing us?" "Someone's chasing us?" Wow. Tough crowd. And he's off again. "When did you start the race? 6 o'clock this morning?" He doesn't hear me, and frankly, my jokes to get him to stop running are pretty dead. Maybe he's actually trying to get away... Am I a catfish? Was I chasing him ? Thank god, we arrive. Naturally, over text, Henry is in bits. You have SHOCKING taste in men. ... Yeah, fair actually. We then proceed to lap the pub ten times (not exaggerating) because he hasn't actually booked. So... ummm... WHY DID WE RUN? I may never know. Kind of want to do a marathon now, though. I feel I am fit enough. Is this runners high? Then, after we finally get a seat, it turns out the waitress has been following us around, too, like a weird thrupple. "You didn't pay." She says. Awkward. "Shit, yeh, Sophie do you mind?" I do mind, but he proceeds to layer me up with all his wordly possessions. I am a glorified coathanger. I wouldn't be surprised if people starting coming over, leaving their coats and bottles on me, mistaking me for a table. After he pays, I carry on carrying. Once I finally get a drink, I drink it in record time - can you understand why I was so drunk now? Tom is in total bits. "Corgi's aren't hunting dogs!" I pause, doubting myself. Its hard to focus when Irish music is playing through All Points East level speakers right in your ear. Irish songs, back to back, for over an hour. He has already told me I'm totally wrong about a lot of things: like me saying that stocks can be traded on the stock market, that Alphabet owns Apple, and that Bill Nighy doesn't always just 'play himself' in films, so I take the time to make sure I'm right. No, I'm definitely right. As the descendant of dog breeders, it would be embarrassing if I wasn't. "Yes they are?" Now he's really in stitches. I give up. "I'm going to the toilet." Unfortunately, the toilet has no wifi. "Hi I'm back!" I say. "Shall I get another bottle?" Look. It was all I could think of on short notice. The bar has wifi. Sadly Henry's gone to bed, and now that I’ve stood up for a while, the alcohol has gone straight to my head. I go to the bar and actually just get another bottle. Don’t even use the opportunity alone wisely. Smart, Sophie. "I've got to head soon, my mum is fuming and thought I died." This, actually, is true. The lack of wifi made her think I was gone from this world. He is, rightfully, a bit confused. "You got another bottle though?" I glance down at it. I had forgotten. "Oh." "Yeh..." "Well, let's drink it fast then!" And I do. We do. It's quite a sight, really, two strangers of equal height sinking a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé (my favourite, too, what a waste). "Please don't kill me!" I say through my tears. They aren't tears from fear, but because I'm laughing so hard. "I genuinely have no idea where I am. How do you get t-to, to London Bank? No- Bridge!" We're doubled over, and he's looking more attractive by the second. We got the wrong train twice. I held his (really quite little) hand in mine as we ran for Platform 10. Or was it 11? Luckily, he was a nice guy (in that he didn't kill me), just a bit of a fibber. Like Lord Farquaad. Lovely, beautiful curly hair, too. Upsettingly, he does give me the look . All the ladies know this look. For the men, I will explain. Picture this: My train is arriving, the lady is saying the eleven-twenty-three train on platform ten for the and we are standing up from the bench. "This is me! Phew, glad I didn't miss it." And he doesn't say anything. Just looks at me, blankly, eyes wide open. He is edgy, slowly, but noticably, closer. He does a little chuckle to acknowledge he heard me. He does the lean . Fuck. No . I am on that train faster than you can say goodbye. Actually, I don't even say goodbye, now I think of it. When I look out the window to wave, he, too, has disappeared. And they say chivalry is dead? Days later he texts asking how things are. I say not great, honestly. My dad's been hospitalised oh no, sorry to hear. Want to watch a film with me? Do you hear that? It's the sound of the final nail going in his coffin.

I didn't have it in myself to go with grace - that's what Swift says. And I didn't, don't, never do. It's not that I fight for relationships. More-so that I seem to wake up in the ship while it's already on fire, hoping to put the flames out and stop it sinking... having been the one to soak it in gasoline, originally. This was so the case with my first serious dating experience on the London scene. He opened up my whole world, but my eyes were so painfully closed against the wonders he disclosed. I still liked, perhaps loved, someone else. Ultimately, they both acted the same. "I don't want a girlfriend right now," they say, voices overlapping, one sat at a table and the other laid next to me in bed. They go on to explain they arent 'ready for it'. This is, similarly, because "they're last girlfriend affected them so badly, mentally, and it's made them terrified of getting into a relationship and becoming that person again..." Perhaps they both thought I was some kind of powerful witch, hoping to take away their autonomy and right to a night out? Then, the real kicker -- "I don't want to lose you though." a.k.a, let's keep hooking up. I'm a beautiful girl who deserves to be loved , just not by them and their traumatic lives. Doesn't stop them shagging their way through London now, leaving a string of broken hearts and heads more screwed up than theirs, but anyway. Before we sat at my wooden dining table and hashed out our new relationship status as the-girl-he-pretends-is-his-girlfriend-but-isn't-exclusive-with, he was perfect. On our first date he showed me exactly who he was over a pint and a glass of white wine. He asked if I'd read Anna Karenina, and I was so self-absorbed I pretended I had but didn't remember it. As an English grad, I felt like I had something to live up to. A persona I needed to slip into that was a shinier, more defined version of myself. It is only since a terrible sickness and fantastic revelation that I realise my self-perceived confidence was actually coming off as arrogance. Not a good look. Either way, I compulsively lied to become someone he might like. Worse still, he did like. He walked me and my leather trousers to the bus stop and texted immediately after. Hope that long journey home wasn't too much for you ... Oh, it was a lot like lotr But less boring? He made me smile enough that one turned into two, and an obscure question about the oncoming apocalypse felt so much like invisible string theory that I swung that door wide open and let him into my life. The dating was the most fun I've had during my time living in London. I was always laughing. We didn't once discuss what we expected out of a relationship. But who does? Who stops the fun to sit a practical stranger down and get serious? The high was addictive, so we both shut up. This is what dating is like, now. You don't discuss things in the beginning, so no one knows what ground you stand on. It's too late to discuss at the end. Putting looking for something serious on Hinge is often a lie, when they (or you) want something fresh, new, and shiny. When that gets boring we go back with our begging bowl riiiiight to the beginning, double-points if your parents chirp up and ask What's James* up to these days? *James has had his name changed to save both him and I the horror. James won't read this, as it's not Anna Karenina, or another text that might further his career. It is also written by me. Dating is normal, I would argue, until phones get involved. Not to sound like dear old dad, but without our phones we wouldn't panic as much. The distance would create a natural yearning between both parties. Instead, we are constantly able to connect with eachother. One of my friends, we will call her Emily, admitted to stalking the man she fancies on Snapchat. I was surprised to know Emily still uses Snapchat -- given we are twenty-four -- but she explained it's purely for the map. All stories of her and her man started or ended with something like I could see on SnapMaps he was at the pub next to me ... For some, it's even more all-consuming. They check the little Whatsapp last online time like it might be their next paycheck. Occasionally after a few glasses of Chardonnay, I'll hear a rare admittence that they change their Hinge location to their crush's house, distance set to one mile, just to check what their profile looks like these days. Any new pics? What are the new prompts like? These are obviously intense, candid examples I am telling you for shock factor. There are many more. There are also many simple acts, like posting a Story on Instagram just for their crush to view it. Perhaps to even get a like from them. Women around the world will know how that hit of dopamine is like no-other, it is all consuming and addictive and rules our lives. TikTok guru's tell us them viewing our story means nothing or everything, that we are categorised as modern marry kiss kill 's and we deserve more, more, more. We are high value. We are temples. We are so so lost. A woman stands on a train platform after a long day in the office. Her feet ache in her high heels, and her train home to Kent is due to leave soon. On that same platform a man runs at full whack, briefcase in hand and desperate to outrun the train to catch her in time. He knows what train she gets because he's been listening every now and then to her talk at work, face turned toward the printer shyly, so he's heard her Chatham accent. No, this isn't the start to a new three-part BBC serial killer documentry (that you'd binge... be honest...). It's how my parents met. My dad ran down that platform after he got the nerve to ask my mum on a date, and she said yes. They were engaged before the year was out -- mere months. To my knowledge, we don't live like this now. I made this realisation after James and I were over over, after seeing eachother a handful more times. Totally coincidentally. I would never drive a county over to pick him up, bring him back to my house, cook for him, then take him home, why? I decided to sack off Hinge, Raya, Bumble, etcetera, and start just going up to people. I wanted my meetcute and figured the more I spoke to strangers the higher my chances, surely. The first was terrifying, a university peer in a Starbucks while I was by myself. He was tall, handsome, and Italian-looking, and I furiously texted my friends asking for backup. He stood and joked with his friend as he waited for his coffee, and I was running out of time. Assistance wasn't coming, there would be no casual meeting, I had to just go up to him. Before his macchiato arrived. So I did. I squared my anxious shoulders, folded my shaking hands together, and muttered a breathless, "Excuse me?" "Yes?" "Um, do you mind if I ask you a question?" Hint: this hack works over text too. Always ask someone you like a question - don't start with hello , I've found that people always respond to questions because the curiosity gets to them everytime (even ex's, people who dislike you, ex's who dislike you... do with that infomation what you will, soldier). Then, when you have them hooked, it's up to you to stay interesting. "...Sure?" "Do you have a girlfriend?" "No, why?" I laugh. He isn't funny, I just laugh when I'm anxious. "Oh! Great! Could I maybe get your number?" He smiles now. Says sure, exchanges phones with me. Could this be it? Are we in love? We aren't. He's actually nineteen, I discover over a very expensive steak and red wine dinner in a bijou little Italian restaurant that he knows all the staff, personally, in. It's a horrible feeling finding out someone is much younger than you. Especially with their extended family around. Am I a cougar? That's not hot. We never go on another date. Next up, I'm on the tube. Two oversized bags are to hand, stuffed with makeup, two spare outfits, trainers, and my going-out handbag. I am making my weekly commute to Central from Tooting Bec, where I go out with my old uni mates and inevitably stay the night. It is the morning after. I have foregone makeup. Of any kind. My hair is day-two straightened and recently bleached Rachel Greene blonde, so it's frazzled at the end now and not slick, like the night before. My eye catches on what can only be described as a beautiful head of hair. It's not that I have a fetish for hair or anything, I just seem to always be attracted to men with gorgeous, Prince Charming from Shrek locks. This man is no exception. He is also in a blue suit, which doesn't hurt. He's stood next to me for a stop and a half, and despite us both having headphones in - and I'm notably staring pointedly away - i'm convinced he's glancing at me. The Northern line is cooking me in my oversized shirt and Carhartt jeans, a true UO pinup star, and I'm thinking which of us will break first ? Spoiler, it's me. He has no idea what thoughts are feverishly going through my head. I decide the perfect time to chat is when we both get up, if only I can snag his eye first. Casually ask him as we get off together. Because, naturally, in my head we are both getting off at the same place. The carriage is practically empty around us. It's a perfect setting, no witnesses. We reach Clapham North, only one stop from Stockwell now where I need to change for Vic. Neither of us move. He's sat down now and his head is bowed, eyes closed. I've been trying to catch his eye with a smile for two stops, and now the doors are opening and the lady is saying Stockwell, change here for... He doesn't get up. Doesn't get off. Shit . That was my moment to engage! I don't move to get off as the other tube-travellers shove past me. We're always rushing, aren't we? Anyway, my little legs stay stuck. I don't want to lose this opportunity. What if he's the love of my life? "Hi!" I say, awkward. I am bent over him with one bag in each hand, and he doesn't hear me. What does get his attention is the woman barrelling into me in her desperation to get off before the doors close. She has at least twenty seconds, but she clearly isn't one to gamble. Or double-check her changes on Citymapper. She sends me tumbling into him, and, because of my bags, onto him. Well, this could be cute too, right? He takes out his headphones to my chorus of sorry sorry, I'm so sorry . "It's fine, are you okay?" "Yes! Good!" He nods. The headphones are on their way back in. He has wired ones instead of airpods, so hopefully he's at least, like, twenty-three? "Sorry, excuse me," He looks up, confused. What more could this chick want? "Can I ask you a question?" "Uh. Ok?" This is clearly my pick up line, I realise now. At least it's unassuming. And it has a 100% success rate, too. "Do you have a girlfriend?" Tube boy perks up at this significantly. Maybe he can feel it coming, the compliment. Has anyone ever asked for his number before? How often do men get asked for their numbers? I was willing to bet I was the first. And I got his number. I awkwardly got off with him at the next spot and when he asked where I was going, was unfortunately honest. "Stockwell!" I say, serial killer smile at full whack. (I'm not a serial killer, but I bet the adrenaline rush made me look like one). "...Stockwell?" Given we passed this stop, just now, together, his confusion is valid. I explain how I just really wanted his number, and he finds it cute. I shake his hand (don't ask. Honestly don't. I've had enough) and head back to Stockwell. Mission accomplished. It turned out, rather quickly, that gorgeous tall suited Tube Boy was in fact a raging alcoholic. He sent me photos and videos of him drinking literally daily. We never made it to a date, but followed each other on Instagram with the hope one day we'd find the time. "Sorry, I'm just not looking for something right now. I'm trying to work on myself." This, for once, seemed quite reasonable. Tube Boy needed to work on himself, if what he was sending me (ultimately a dishevelled hungover stranger with fantastic taste in jeans) was anything to go by. A few weeks later it was revealed to me in an Instagram Story (from AFRICA?!) that Tube Boy had aquired a girlfriend. They've since been together over a year, and yesterday he liked my Instagram Story of an outfit that his girlfriend would hate. Safe to say, we are no longer Instagram buddies. I must admit these two failures did make me think of James. Given that James regularly liked all my posts at the time, occasionally even texted (hoping for what, can you guess?) and often phoned. Notably James had to call me twice, each time, to break through my perpetual Do Not Disturb defences. (Honestly, try it, its addicting). My third and final attempt at an honest, in person love came at the holy site of the Avalon. If you aren't familiar with the Avalon, it's really not all that exciting. It only features on what I presume to be Gods list of blessed pubs because the staff there love to give me a free drink. Even a free night. One might argue, one too many free drinks. I digress. Picture this: the lights are now, the music is predictable, and every person around you of your chosen attraction is, frankly, ugly. Two men who might dress up as beanpoles on halloween have bent down to your ear one too many times. They have also bent down to every other woman with a pulse, hoping for someone to latch on and start climbing their bean-stalks (if you will), Jack-style. The lights are dark enough, you're drunk enough, and the desperation is... well... high enough, that everyone starts looking plausible. "How long has it been since you last kissed someone?" My friend asks after attempt #3 from beanstalk. Too long. Weeks? Even a month? "Let's not talk about it." And there, under the light of an overheating discoball, Jacob Elordi-in-saltburn-style-but-with-less-murder, is a beautiful head of hair. Curly, long, brown, attached to a man with a jaw and... well, does the rest even matter? Lovely hair. He turns his face, and it's pretty. The time has come. Shoulders are thrown back, back is straight, and I saunter over. The confidence is frankly quite misplaced, but you'll find out. "Hi!" "Hey!" A response. Fantastic sign. In my mind's eye, I see us running, hand in hand, along a beach together. "Can I ask you a question?" Perhaps even at sunset. "Go ahead!" I am blissfully unaware to my surroundings. The girls behind him, for instance. I'm too busy frolicking. "Are you single?" He rears back, takes a sip of his drink. I don't notice - that'll be the alcohols work. I assume he is just stunned a woman would ask him this. He thinks I'm confident, suave, slick. "No-" and the spell breaks "-this is my girlfriend." He gestures behind him where what can only be described as a demon lay in wait. And, honestly, fair enough. I'm totally stunted. What does one do with this response? I never considered this might happen. Men actually acquire girlfriends these days? For the rest of the night, the demon, and the demons demon friends who now know I exist, glare at me. I feel their hatred. Still, fair enough. I'd probably be just as territorial. Boyfriends are a rare breed these days. Alas, I have returned since to Hinge. Occasionally, after a cheeky match-reset, James pops up. His pictures are the same. He does not think of me. (I know this because I called him and he told me so. Thanks James). I think of everything, all the time, so unfortunately he is included. When my parents were my age, they met on a train platform and had a love that timeless ballads are written about. Given there's only a few months left of the year, it would frankly take a Christmas miracle and perhaps the blood-sacrafice of a few virgins for me to find that kind of love. I wish me luck. (P.S. anyone know any virgins?)

The pain is coming in waves. I need to get past it, before I can recall for you. Talk to you. It exists as a cramp, all the way up from my gut to the bottom of my ribs. As if, yesterday, I did too many sit-ups and my muscles have been irreparably shredded. It hurts so bad I can't look at my phone - as one so often does - can't think. Several times I've eyed up nearby bins, a favourite being ones with detachable insides, to heave up whatever is left within me. I must have silence. I've begged to a God I don't believe in before, promised Satan all kinds; I'll trade you my degree. My youth. I'll never fall in love, just please - please make the pain stop. For now, I digress. The water is aquamarine blue. It's so potent in colour it doesn't look real, like diamonds by the gallon have been crushed and spread about the island. With the melting sun reflecting on it as she is, it looks like the hell that had, finally, frozen over, has found itself to be melting. It's another world. The definition of serenity. To not feel peace here - well, something must be wrong with you. I don't entirely feel at peace. Before me, obscuring half of the sunset beyond, is a dine-in hotel menu. The food is delicious; freshly caught sea basses, seasoned crab tacos, all manner of regional curries with sides of sticky rice and handmade spiced flatbread. It's mouth-watering. My family, behind, are fawning over the choice. The epitome of luxury. Instead, I am filled with mixed feelings. I'm grateful, so grateful, to have this experience. To be here, see this - it is a blessing so few have at my age. At any age. Regardless of all my appreciation - and, honestly, my joy - I could cry. I cannot eat anything on the menu. It's such a small facet, but when something like food (or more broadly, choice) is taken away from you, it's difficult not to feel hard done by. I wrestle with these thoughts. The guilt. So much guilt. The unworthiness. I could cry, it's too much to bear and I'm not strong enough. There is no diagnosis for my gut problems, nor does there seem to be (it's been eight years) a cure. I have been told not to eat gluten, dairy, onions, garlic, FODMAP's in general, caffeine, alcohol... the list is so long, allow me to surmise: only the plainest, unseasoned food. My mum is the first to notice, "What can you eat, Sweetie?" I shrug. "I'm not really sure." "Don't worry," she comforts, writing down her order of coconut monkfish curry, "we'll ask if they can do you something." Her dessert will be sticky toffee pudding, with a side of fresh vanilla ice cream. A favourite of mine. Previously. Again, I shouldn't complain. This is the kind of the place that caters to anything, and they do. And it tastes nice. On our small outdoor table - to better enjoy the sunset - are a buffet of global delicacies. Breads and burgers and sauces and spices and wines and decadently arranged chocolate desserts. The difference is stark, the microwaved gluten-free bread still warm in its plastic bag is out of place. The unseasoned beef looks simple, bland. Comparison is the thief of joy - they say, and boy , am I comparing. Over the edge of our twelve-man (and one woman) table, the ocean is magnificent. It doesn't glow in fantastic colours but against the strong cliff-face surrounding us the gentle waves make me feel like I'm a small bug in a large basin. Around me are powerhouses of industry, incredibly clever men who have rose through the ranks to this al fresco table, now. They are getting drunk. Let rephrase - they're already drunk, they're getting drunk er . The wine that comes is in another language and the man beside me speaks it with a fluent accuracy that allows him to joke with the waiter. They teach me how to drink it, properly. To swirl, breathe it in, the legs, the grape, the age, the soil. It is an art. I do it again and again. I love(d) alcohol. I have never been more intimidated in my life. Surrounded by people like this is an opportunity few come by. I can tell the restaurant is expensive because it smells expensive. In the air. In the count of the tablecloth. In the bottles of wine I now know about, sinking faster than any ship could. I swim as fast as I can. My head is barely above the surface. Since I have been forced off alcohol - a sore spot, for someone whose Hinge bio gloated how I could drink anyone under the table - I have a distaste for it. The thick, cloying smell on a man's breath. How the inebriated act. Their lack of control, over body and language. How everything is funny. Nothing is funny. And yet, I drink. Everything I am presented with, I drink. I keep up. I tell a former Mayor of London I could tell vodka out of a lineup of any white spirit, and they challenge me. The powerhouses take me up on it. They scheme which white spirits they'll choose. With each new glass comes plates of complicated food that reeks of onion and garlic, but I clean every plate. I turn down the bread - it's only a side, and it's my only saving grace. Mary isn't proud, but Hades is. At the next venue, I leave the pack to desperately find a quiet place. A toilet of some form. The pain is coming, I can feel it in the sick feeling in my throat. My thoughts make it worse, as they always do, expediting the pain. What if something happens? Who is going to help you? What if you can't move? What if you cry and ruin your makeup, and embarrass yourself? I will be here for three more hours, at least. I find the toilet. The queue is short, but it's unisex and suddenly the bodies pile up. I'm in the dirty space, alone, and I'm doubled over so the tears drop straight out my eyes onto the floor, and not down my face. I worry when the banging will start, as the queue urges me to hurry. Here, the water is a sweet trickster. She laps at the edges of a small cove, sometimes a muddy brown but often an unearthly shade of aquamarine and lime. I love her, and have for over half my life. This cove has shaped me. Kept me safe. Watched me cry. Heard me tilt my head back to admire a shower of fallen stars, and wish on them for every boy I ever meet to love me. Wishes can be a cruel mistress, then. Now, I sit in my home. It has a 'clear line of sight'. From the tennis court, to croquet lawn, grapevine-alfresco-dining, kitchen and dining room, one can see straight through to the sea. It lives in a fishbowl in this valley, but somehow maintains privacy. Privacy is a big deal, for my parents, who bought and designed this house. We do not like to be perceived unwittingly. I'm writing this from the fish shaped glass bartop. It's beautiful. I'm so lucky to live here. My 24th birthday just passed, and, naturally, i've been suffering. At midnight I stood sober in a favourite haunt of mine and my friends, and felt the breath of the airconditioning. I had never noticed before. The urge to accept the free drinks was terrible - I love a bargain. I get a phone call from someone very pretty and very drunk, and they wish me a happy birthday. They are too drunk , they say. I miss so much. At this table, I write because I'm in pain. I always write when I'm hurting. It's both cathartic, and, sometimes, when men are the instigator - my best work. I am creative if nothing. I don't want to tell my dear parents that the food they've given me, food they've spent time and thought on not to hurt me, has done just that. My dad scrutinises me over my laptop, one G&T in. "What are you writing?" "Nothing."

Elexis thinks. She thinks and thinks and thoughts so hard that everything is always, irrevocably, on her mind. This is most particularly so in regard to the Orange. The Orange is a phenomena, a sign. A written story across the sky to tell you something, if you’d just think about it long enough. Elexis refers to her orange most typically with the men of her life. To see the Orange sometimes meant a YES! Or a no - time to move on. Sometimes she reflected on the Orange and saw in it’s tangerine rays a secret, hidden sign. This one told her it was actually the other guy, the one you didn’t expect. The thing was, she expected everything. She cried over what if’s and lived lives in her head as she wriggled raw salmon out their ugly, slippery, wet packaging. She always ate salmon. Sometimes she felt like those fish. Pale. Exposed. The feeling of getting out a warm bath to your frigid flat during winter. The water drying and then cracking your parched skin. The itch on that part of your back you can’t reach to put cream on. This time, Elexis doesn’t paint his thumbs. She stands, deer in headlights, as she opens her door to him. She pants like a door-mouse clocking an owl in the sky as he leans his forehead on hers. She relinquishes to him, when she knows she should stand and fight. Scream. Wage. She gets in the bath when she knows she shouldn’t. She wears the skirt when it’s too soon. Elexis thinks about how clever she is being, how the Orange knew about this. How it was all meant to be. This is what it meant . Then, like the sun finally setting, the scene goes dark. The Orange isn’t there to cast the sky in great uncommon colours anymore. The wonder is gone. Watching a different sun rise over the sky on a cold day, she wears his jacket and thinks of change. How she has, he has, someone could have, one should have. No one ever changed until its too late. This is the crucial thing: Elexis is thinking. She’s imagining (she’s great at that). He is not her Orange. He isn’t in it nor does he care for its display. Its too late, though. Elexis has already started giving and she cannot stop. She will pour and pour so that he may be more buoyant. Her heart sits beside his in his chest, and he floats all the better for it. She tips over, drowning, to watch the colours cast over the waters surface. She’s crushed in the depths to see no colour, no twinkle, no surface. The world is black and more black. The Orange was a lit end of a cigarette being tugged into his mouth, and he’s smoked the whole thing. Drowning is a strange sensation. It is a place of thought. It is, Elexis argues, the most peaceful kind of death. She has thought so since she was sixteen. She's hit the seabed now, and turns in the swarm of sand to face the surface. It does twinkle, slightly. The moon has begun to cast it's light casually across the space. It is all she can see. As Elexis' lungs give in and she gulps a breath, hoping for air, she chokes. Choking is the hardest part. Acknowledging the loss. Giving in. There is no going back, now. She convulses, with her bodies urge to expel, expel , but all she does is gulp more water in. Then, she's still again. Her brain hasn't shut down yet, none of her body has. She still has a few moments of her heart beating. It reminds her of when she laid in the bath, perfectly still, to watch her heartbeat reverberate the water. She told him she'd never see him again. She was wrong. Now that she's right, was it worth it? To never see the Orange again? Wish upon it's light?

I ask everyone that will listen for advice. How to make someone listen, notice, understand. Ai can't grasp the dichotomy: do not manipulate people, it suggests. The heart attaches not like flowers blossoming, rose-coloured tint, or butterflies shaking in the gut. Remember when we'd go to the beach, young, and dig our nails under crustaceans because dad told us they could be peeled off? They never broke. I was an angry soul, so when the digging and pulling failed and my nails were broken I'd take slate to the shell and start smashing. Still, they never broke. They are stronger than me. It attaches like a sickness, leeching onto the world in my thoughts and not letting go. There is no control over when it will happen. When he leaves the table and our empty drinks to smoke and flirt with the girls outside, I beg my heart to take interest. It doesn't listen. The boy, the boy ten thousand miles away is more interesting. Its hooks are in the rock. When we argue over how unrealistic it may or may not be not only to hotwire a bike, but to drive one through London back to the south in the midst of chaos. The heart perks up at this, turns an ear to listen. It can't not. The cage around it has been shaking so hard with laughter, it would be enough to garner anything's interest. I take a selfie in the mirror - maybe I don't mind the smoking I send. Which would you pick, if you had the choice? Mum asks me on the steps. I think about our first kiss on our third date last week. I consider the boy who doesn't like me, who is sleeping around, who isn't ready for a relationship (the with me is silent). I pick the second one, I tell her. She nods. She already knows. He is pretty, and ambitious, and - Freud laughs - similar to my father. Find someone like your dad, she advises. I have. She has not. Here's what he doesn't do: reply to me, buy me flowers, pick me, choose me. Given the option, the option will be taken. Over table ice hockey, my heart has fully perked up. The shot of vodka ruffles its feathers. Cute couple, a couple regards us as I, charmingly, lose at pool. They smile when I drag him into the adjacent photo booth. The other one didn't take photos with you, or of you. The heart notices this. She is a wicked crone. We taste each other's Hawaiian cocktails, served to us in an obscure basement. One is called Lani's. I take a photo, send it to my friend Lani. I take more photos, poloroids, equally awful. We exchange them, tuck them into forgotten places. I find mine in a book, months later after it's dead and gone, and stick it on my wall. Among the funeral pyre. I didn't realise you were so extroverted, I admire my achievement. On the bus cross-country, you play a game and don't speak to me. I pretend I pretend I pretend. I love acting, in this way. A girl has interrupted our space. This is our morning, 6am, walk together. The pavement is small, so now I walk on the road in the bike lane. She walks on the pavement, next to you. She's your friend. You chat. I smile, lobotomy like, because I want to seem friendly and when my face is relaxed my mum tells me I'm unapproachable. So what work do you do? Pavement girl asks me. I don't have a job, it's a soft spot. I dropped out of uni, lost myself, found myself, and am yet again at university. I'm lucky enough to not need a job, so I don't get one. This, this freedom from capitalism, the rat race, embarrasses me. I'm between things at the moment. She's running a marathon, so she jogs away. Finally. I walk you to the ocean waste and then take the morning commuter train home. I write in my diary, I like him. Despite - Despite - Despite - Someone spikes my drink in a pubclub. I know it is spiked, because I cannot move. My friends tell me I have drunk too much - probably also true, I am known for this. I am not known for my self-restraint. I ring you, again, over and over. You answer, it's probably too late to come over now. I have work in the morning. That stings. The next morning, I come to you anyway. It's uncontrollable, a gut reaction. My legs are moving and thumbs typing before my unplugged brain can catch up. Can remember what you're like. I enter, we hug, I wait till closing. He leaves my empty drink and me to go smoke outside with girls. Do you mind sitting here so no one can see you? We've closed. He asks. I sit. I tell him I've been spiked. It doesn't really sink in. I meet his family, briefly. I'm a spare part in the house. It's unsettling. I open the door, close the latch quietly. Walk myself home. He asks if I've left. My heart is swollen. It's confused. Move forward or give space? You ask to see me, I ask if you want to meet my friends. You do. And they say romance is dead. You text me later. I'm lost - we have romance? I've acted too cool, too unbothered and now you're calling me out. Why is it okay when you do it? You ask to see me. Several times, more than I can remember. My heart doesn't forget, and its back is turned. I get sick. It's bad, and I'm weak. The ivory tower is quiet and empty. Through the walls, I hear signs of life. Hello, I say. Haha, hello. We organise to meet. We argue. This is fun. I like this. You say, in my kitchen. It's a small space and you're arcing over me and I don't know how to feel, so with your arm propped on the counter I busy myself making tea that I don't want. This is familiar, to my heart. It wants to be held. With your arm, bigger now, banded over my ribcage, I could purr. Feline, tilting her head as her ears are scratched. Her eyes are closed and she stretches her back, tail flicking in the air in content. I've missed you, you say. I don't say it back. I like you in my space again. The dim warm light casting shadows on the new angles of your body. I admire, thinking myself a sculptor, and give myself words of affirmation. I made the right choice. It's different this time. It's safe, and I'm calm, and he makes me feel not sick. Strong. I'm so safe that the words come, as they always do, as they do now. I like to show and tell my words like art I have collected and displayed. I want you to read. To consume. It's too much - suddenly. The head scratching stops. The ceiling lights are on and everything is hospital-bleached white. I'm sick with anxiety. That's a hyperbole people use, but in my case, it means physical pain. I wake up throughout the night, despite the drugs. I consider asking AI for help, when my friend's support runs thin. I don't dare tell my mum, who liked him best. I bend over, doubled, as each thought flagellates me. I am full of sin that it chokes, all water is Holy and it's burning me. The flower has wilted even though it's spring, and no amount of work is regrowing it. It won't survive the Easter.

Lucretia and Harcourt had died and died again so many times, living had become a novelty. Every time they fell in love, you see, they died. No one lives forever here, least of all those who allow love to consume them — but I have, I do. Watching on as infinite flames ignite and extinguish around me, such beautiful strikes of a match first grazing touchpaper in vivid spoil before the darkness engulfing me and the pinpricks they call stars ultimately takes them, too. Here, it’s always tasted of sulphur and the bitter oil of spoiled apples. This fated pair has burned for one another for as long as love itself has existed. It was I alone who saw those tiny flames (all creatures hold them in their craniums crook) ignite and turn them back to stardust. Love is the curse to them all. I myself though have been admired by many names: the Wahoo they say, Universe, God, Kami and the like. They sing for me, take to their knees, or open their mouths in gaping chasms that sometimes sound like laughter but most often are agony, the kind that comes as flames swallow them whole and start them anew. Lucretia and Harcourt had been doing this, like clockwork, for as long as time was a construct they understood. Even before, I sometimes entertain, they fell and destroyed themselves for one another… Though perhaps this, time, is not the right word… it is something so insubstantial in the face of their unbending glory. I choose to scrutinise their story in this way because despite my omnipotence, I must have my perfect ending where their love is not a limiting factor in their separate epic tales. I insist on seeing their individual outcomes; having taken such care in their perfection it is quite frankly my due. And yet, no, they strive toward each other so incessantly that each time this satisfaction is carelessly robbed. Do they not care how they forsake me? Beyond their own impotence — care for their own preservation? The ending I so desperately covet, to visualise what the outcome of their power can achieve, is never granted to me. I have laboriously watched them love and fail. For you, in layman’s terms, they could somewhat be described as my Achilles heel. As you should well know, he too was a great hero felled from love’s machinations. Despite her impending misfortune and how she will disavow me, the name I have always preferred is the one when she speaks of me. *** It’s Fate, Luke thinks as he intertwines his fingers with hers in front of everyone. No one had ever done that before, and she expects no one might ever again. “This is Lucretia,” Harry introduces, and from the way his expat mates’ eyes blow wide at the sight of her, he knows they’re impressed. He drags his gaze briefly over her as she meets them each with that smile of hers, though all the while he is desperately digging — trying to find that part of himself that used to care. She doesn’t look like any chick from home. What he doesn’t notice is the way she holds his hand like it’s her last-ditch attempt before she free-falls over the edge anyway. Simply, he does not care to. “No, please that’s too formal!” she giggles, “Luke’s fine.” His friend’s approval matters to an extent, but once the alcohol blunts the pain he carries he finds himself thinking it’s like they’ve known each other for years. He revels in how they fit together; from hands or the way she slots beside him to that corruptive hope rising within him again. They’d met by chance online, and despite their own inhibitions it felt like something wanted them to meet. Forgoing all semblance of a slow-burning love-story, Harry couldn’t smother his passion and instead drew her in for a kiss as soon as they met. He’d seen that smile for the first time then, his only goal now was to keep seeing it. Dipping low, he tries to steal a kiss. “I hate you,” Luke doges him, apparently mid-conversation. He tries again — “Shut up,” — then enraptured as she lets him. Leaning back, Harry considered the obstacles their relationship would have to overcome as he watched his mates fall over themselves to buy her a drink. Firstly; in six weeks, he flew home to Australia. Perhaps more importantly than this he didn’t even want a relationship, wasn’t remotely ready for one. At twenty-three years old, half of Sydney already fancied him while the other half hated him for breaking their hearts. What he didn’t think on was that he’d met Luke on a dating app, which meant she did want something long-term — but Harry was never any good at caring about what the chick’s he hooked up with thought. Even this one, who made his heart spark like a lighter struck but not lit. *** Just now, I note they’ve met again. I shudder at the memory of their little old souls seeking each other out from that first gasp of crisp freedom at birth — though am plagued nonetheless to watch on as they attempt to mock my desires again. In this lifetime they do not anticipate my intervention because modernity has made them soft, so dismissive of their primal instincts that before would have sensed my influence. They make children of themselves with the silly nicknames they go by, but I refuse to adhere to this folly: Lucretia and Harcourt is what they were born to this time, by this title they shall remain. To know one’s true name is leverage so sadly outdated. This lovesickness, this disease will be eradicated. If I must suck the love from their marrow myself, I will deign. Harcourt is the weaker one. I’d riddled his life with previous heartbreak, trying to light the flame and incinerate him before he could ever touch her. It’s a violent process making a soul so fractured, but Fate works in mysterious ways and in this I am thorough. I watched Lucretia launch a thousand ships, bring a true noble man to his knees with an apple or corrupt whole empires with the roll of a rug. It was just a lifetime ago that I watched men crave so widely, a monarchy ended her for it before my control could even graze her (admittedly, not the outcome I had hoped for). Lucretia is indomitable, and yet, with this feminine man, she is broken every time. This thought loosens the rest of my patience, so I latch onto my lustrous threads of stars, and I weave the whispers of their goodbyes — smirking as I allow them this sympathy. Among the billions in space before me I reach toward her. She doesn’t appear to me as you might expect, your simple eyes cannot see souls but in my space they are clear; a single iridescent line transposes her mortal flesh in exchange for just her true essence. Already she glows with those dreaded fresh embers, so I rinse this curse out of her body for good. *** “I promise you’ll forget me, darling,” Harry says. He can’t fathom how he wants that to be true while equally fantasising how she’ll break down in reckless abandon and beg him to stay. It’s wrong, he knows, to hope this and know when she does he’ll reject her anyway. “I’ll still text you regardless.” She bobs her head once and the need to touch her suffocates him. Almost a foot below him, her features are dipped so low he can only see the crooked crown of her long brown hair. His fingers, jittery with recovered anxiety, twitch with the impulse to smooth away the upset she usually has so perfected. This does not overwhelm the attachment to his own trauma, though, and that is their undoing. Years ago, Harry had given his love entirely to another girl, then another, then another and they’d all suffocated his spirit so thoroughly he swore never to let a woman trick him again. After months of tortuous arguing with his family, he had caved and gone to therapy. All that had achieved was half a person, who acknowledged he was filled with half as much serotonin as someone should have. Her silence unsettles something deep in him, so he continues to fill the gap between them as he sits to manhandle his shoes on. In these last moments, he does not want to look down on her. “You and my friend should hook up, you know - he definitely likes you,” he croaks, voice breaking. He hopes she hasn’t noticed, but as he heaves in a panicked breath all he knows is her, the musk of her flat and the twang of her hairspray. The line has come out of nowhere, and they both struggle with their bafflement in an attempt to remain unfazed at his disregard to all they’ve shared. “You must be joking,” Luke says. Leaning back against the banister, he can see the effort it takes her to smile behind this leisurely demeanour. Luke has always been one to hide her tears rather than expose her true feelings and risk being hurt more. “I’ve already told you I won’t get over you. Why would I want to start seeing your friends?” There’s a smile somewhere trying to force its way out through the gratitude he feels that she won’t forget him so quickly. That she won’t move on from him, 10,000 miles away as he might be going. “You have my blessing, darling,” he says instead, shrugging off her disapproval. She can’t see how much he cares because then he’d have to confront this, how much he burns for her, himself. She tips her head back to the ceiling, and he wonders if she’s having a secret conversation with someone about just how awful he is. Can you believe this? Her eyes say, twinkling there under the bare flickering bulb above. He glances up, too, just in case there is someone there, telling her how to stop his flight. It would take so little from her they’d explain, just a brush of a hand or a kiss, but she wasn’t built to do either. Luke, too, has been carved harshly by the past and lost pieces of herself on her way to him so she will not crack now, not for him. Not for how little they’ve known of each other. Luke knows in this moment that she loves him. Watching all six-foot-two of him cram into that chair at her door, the way his blue eyes saturated with so much melancholy refuse to catch hers, is enough to send her spiralling. If she stares at the ceiling long enough, perhaps the tears will slink back inside and he won’t notice her agony. It has always embarrassed her, to show her sadness to someone else. He approaches her — no, the door behind — and her hope slips away. She will never forgive Fate for tearing them apart, her respect for the force she once adored so greatly obliterated. Harry never had, had told her so, but now she didn’t believe in love or Fate either. Sometimes, what’s meant to be shouldn’t be the way things are. *** Lucretia hates me. She manipulates her own sanity, she questions, forgets, and torments herself, but what she doesn’t realise is I know what is best. I am doing what is best for her, and for Harcourt, and I am giving them the opportunity for a future they have otherwise never experienced free from each other’s hold. Of course, he struggles too, but not nearly as much. He has so much depth of emotion that it’s impossibly easy to send this version of him into a spiral of self-loathing. Often I forget his poor, unfortunate existence entirely. A hand — not mine, personally I dispute her need for one at all — crafted her ribs wide enough to accompany both of their hearts, but this self-destruction has gone on long enough. She has the power to be a ruler, and he too such a successful villain if only they would let themselves. In this moment, these moments, of contemplation, I do not see Lucretia slip out of my hold. Across my blank space I see her arc of light spiral effervescently against the darkness toward him and before I can reach out and quench this insurrection he has torched up like a storm. *** “That’s what he texted you?” Eleanor groans, disgusted. Luke is nodding hard enough she looks like a nodding toy in a car, but perhaps if she is thorough her friend will agree with her. “I’m sorry, Luke, but you deserve so much better”—the friend pointedly instructs with her spatula— “Don’t reply”. Her head’s direction has taken a hard right, and now she’s shaking it vehemently. “You’re wrong,” she implores, “I’m going to reply to him. What I want is for you to tell me what to say.” Eleanor’s attention takes a break from her pan long enough for a long-suffering look to pass over. Despite this, the text is written and sent in record time. Moments tick by that eventually turn into hours; Luke is taking the train home, turning over every word in those dark monotonous hours with only the dust to hear her and yet there is never a response. The days of silence coalesce into months bygone, she’s haunted by Harry still, of how it felt waking up that morning wrapped against him in the dull struggling light and begging the Universe please, I want this one. *** The slip was brief but almost irreparable to recover from. Thankfully, enough persuasion from Harcourt’s heartbroken friends left him so busy, with a phone so full of texts Lucretia’s own small attempt had no chance of being seen by him. Having expected no reply from her, he is free to live the life of success I so intend without ever knowing the truth. Despite this, with each fresh burnout I must elsewhere deal with I notice Harcourt’s newfound strength grow. He has begun to wiggle against me too, now smouldering as Lucretia made him all those months ago — which is, of course, a major concern. Around me the dust of fallen lovers is littered, my space a disarray, but nothing will distract Fate’s course in this love affair. I work to keep them both under control while half-heartedly maintaining my priority in passing on the other burnouts to their next chance of a future free from love. After the white light marking a fateful pair fallen in love disappears around me, I do not see what comes of those in my care. I do not consider that Harcourt might seek Lucretia out despite the chance she has moved on, that she might even hate him. When I disregard his ticket to London I do so on the assumption he is still selfish, broken. Anything else. Who in their right mind would fight for someone who explicitly doesn’t want them? *** Harry has taken his chances. Walking up these familiar stairs, he swallows down the feeling of utter wrongness and focuses on what his heart has always wanted. With a breath, a last-minute spray of sample-size cologne, and a swift tuck of his loosened hair, he readies to go against his own instincts and meet her. His knock against the mahogany door echoes like a wedding bell back down the stairs. The taste of musk is almost overwhelming. *** I haven’t worked in days. Another attempt to save them: fruitless. I allow the dust of thousands, perhaps millions if I could care to count, of victims pile around me. For once, Harcourt and I are in agreement. I shouldn’t have let this happen… *** “I’m sorry,” Harry says. Luke’s heart has crawled so far up her throat by his visage at her door that she can barely breath, let alone speak. Soaked through from the typical London torrent outside, she wonders if he notices the strand of trembling hair hung over his sunken eyes — so at odds with his new healthy tan. “Are you insane?” “Only for you.” “Don’t be funny!” “I’ll be whatever you want me to be.” “Harry!” She snaps, temper finally rising. It’s the kind of fury that, at a change in the wind, could quickly give way to tears. At least that way they’d both be soaked through. Suddenly, as if a puppet-master tugged his strings, Harry jerks forward to grasp her arms. “It’s been a long six months,” he says, “I was scared before and I’m sorry — but I’m different now. We’ll be different.” Luke has turned back to stone along with the rest of her, and she can’t find it within herself to care. Ironic, considering if Harry listened closely he’d hear the depressive music winding its way down from the speaker. What he does notice is her eyes and mouth split wide like she was facing Medusa personally, it’s enough to make him fill the silence with his words. “I’ll wait for you for-” —he leans down— “forever. For forever.” She wrenches herself out of his hold, stumbling back from the door. Desperately he follows her, seeking that warmth her eyes used to give. They go on like this until Luke meets a wall and Harry can embrace her again. Her crown is crooked, so he rights it. “I can’t survive you again,” she says, fingers curled against her palms to avoid the urge to touch him. “So don’t.” *** Every time I roll over, I see a new pile of dust. The thought of seeing their dust sickens me — it’s just so grotesque. Why was this feeling worth dying for? Why? Why? I heave a breath and it chokes me, dries me out and scatters in a hellish cloud. It’s moments like this that I wonder if I have a heart at all, occasionally I consider if I’m the problem — which is naturally preposterous. Of course it’s them. “I hate you,” I say to space, imaging it’s the lovers. “I hate you,” my words echo back. I wish I could protest, as the humans do. Who would hear my complaints, in all this darkness? “You’re an idiot.” They echo back, insulting me. “I love you,” I try, forlorn, the words taste foreign in my mouth. Like fresh fruit. *** “I hate you,” Luke says. “No you don’t,” Harry laughs, rising from one knee.

The us in my head has lived lifetimes. I know we’re soulmates in a different one. In the multiverse of multiverses, I know you are there and I’m next to you in your kitchen. You’re cooking me pasta, gluten free because you think of me, and your hand is reaching out for me to step into. You don’t face me, or glance to me, as you reach out. It’s because you know I’ll come to you. I’ll always come to you. I know somewhere there’s a Me who gets to straighten your curly hair. It’s because you love her so much that this simple joy makes you happy, seeing her happy. Seeing me happy. You foster generations and worlds of creativity, just by being the first and only to love her as she loves the world. Somewhere, you walk with me arm in arm at four am. We have to walk across London to get the only bus we can that will take us home. You let me smoke your cigarette, and the childish high it gives me makes you smile. While she is spinning and skipping through the lamplights, you smile at me. Because you love me. I know that in that lifetime, and probably every lifetime, you are a successful actor. You stand in the suit I choose for you because it makes you look the most like Heath Ledger, and you love that comparison. To the side of the step-and-repeat, I film candid videos of you. Not for your instagram carousel I know they’ll later end up on, but because I’m so proud of you. I know in that world you send me flowers. You let me paint your nails - just the thumbs. You let me decorate you with all the vintage clothes I find. You sit beside me and read my work to me, even though I don’t need you to. Even though I work best when I read it myself. I just like to hear your voice. You tell me all the silly jokes about tractors, all the time. Even, if not especially, when i’m angry. You love when I’m angry. When I’m anything, because it’s all yours. In that life I get my work done on time because I’m not busy crying and writing prose about you. You introduce me to your friends. To Adam. To Penelope, whom you may or may not be in love with. In that universe I wear your initial on a chain round my neck. You wear the jacket I bought you, and the Polaroid of me is in your pocket. I exhaust myself to go round and sleep next to you, just for a few hours, just like I do in this universe because I love simply your proximity. When we wake before the sun, I take the long route home because I get to be next to you in that bitter cold. There, we go bowling. You meet my friends, when I offer. There, I am a priority. There, it does not matter that I have driven so far to see you because you do the same for me, too. I don’t live in that multiverse though, so I have to live in my memories. I play Solas and I think of the pink sunset as I walked to your house. That was the last time I had you unequivocally. How we curled up on your bed that valentines day, trying to find a solution where I didn’t have to leave. Maybe if I hadn’t left, if I’d gone to your party and met your friends, my love wouldn’t be unrequited now. Maybe the world that has an us is one where I chose you that day. I play All Too Well, the 10 minute version, in this universe because when I say ill daydream till the end of this song… it means I get a whole ten, guilt free minutes of living life with you. We have lived so much life in my head. None of this is real though. What’s real is how i’ve asked for my clothes back, but I don’t think you’ll give them to me. I think you like wearing them and remembering me. Maybe you don’t remember me, how I hold you or touch you or choose you. Maybe you just like the clothes because they’re nice.