She's Not The One, And Neither Is She

Lili conceded to the invitation. She would go out with me. I was well aware she was intermittently seeing someone else – a polished, sterile coder – but I told myself there was no harm in the attempt. Humanity, as I have observed, is rarely governed by caution when it comes to the fleeting appetites of the flesh; it is propelled by blind momentum. So, I plunged forward into the void of secular courtship, even if its invisible societal contracts felt as obscure and hostile to me as contemporary art.

We met on the Southbank as the bells struck seven, assembling beneath the concrete brutalism of the Royal Festival Hall. I had selected the venue because it carried an air of sophisticated ease, a quiet illusion I was desperately trying to sell. We decided to linger by the river rather than brave the pre-concert frenzy inside. I had secured aisle seats in advance – a contingency plan to avoid the crush of the crowd and permit a graceful, belated entrance.

After dispensing with the necessary pleasantries, which largely consisted of her describing a day spent engineering gene therapy solutions, we fell into the idle ritual of people-watching. Lili seemed particularly transfixed by a woman sashaying past us, draped in a dazzling, ostentatious red dress.

‘There are so many people in the world,’ I murmured, my gaze drifting after the woman’s retreating figure. ‘It makes me wonder…’

‘Wonder what?’ she asked, tilting her head.

‘Why we bother insisting upon our own importance. We are just one of millions. Billions. In the grand scheme of things, we do not truly matter.’

‘That is exactly the point,’ she countered, without missing a beat. ‘It is a basic signal-to-noise ratio. You have to stand out against the static. Like that woman in the red dress.’

I glanced towards the woman again, a glowing ember fading into the grey distance. ‘I suppose. But… Why?’

‘Why not?’ Lili shrugged, indifferent to the philosophical burden of it. ‘If you can be bothered to look that good.’

‘No, I mean–’ I stopped myself. It was pointless to attempt to untangle an existential crisis on a first date. ‘Yes, why not. Strive to be special. So long as the worldly cost does not bankrupt the soul.’

‘Does not compute?’ she asked, her tone entirely deadpan.

‘Oh, it is just a saying,’ I said, a hot flush of cringe rising in my collar.

‘No, I understand it,’ she said, a soft frown creasing her brow. ‘There is always a tax levied on success. You merely have to determine what you are willing to pay for it.’

After a moment’s pause to digest the sheer pragmatism of Lili’s insight, I muttered a compliment regarding her profundity and checked my watch.

‘Shall we discover if Bruckner is worth the endurance? I am unconvinced I have the stomach for him.’

She smiled thinly. ‘We shall see.’

And with that, we surrendered to the auditorium. The evening was progressing tolerably; I did not feel entirely out of tune with the universe.

The orchestra opened with Mozart’s 39th. It was ecstatic, an otherworldly harmony that makes one feel as though the architecture of life is vastly larger – and yet intimately smaller – than our daily anxieties permit us to believe. But as the strings soared towards the sublime, my traitorous mind dragged me back to a therapy session where I had selected this exact piece for a grounding visualisation exercise. Back then, I had imagined myself atop an Alpine peak – a majestic, untouched marvel of nature. Now, seated in the concert hall, the mere thought of that mountain filled me with a sudden dread. The long night had crept into the mental image, accompanied by a recent, grim news broadcast detailing hikers who had wandered astray and perished in those very Alps. Therapy, I have found, is an unreliable partner. Nevertheless, Mozart worked his sacred magic, washing over me in a gentle tide, a reminder that healing does not always have to be intelligible to be felt.

During the interval, I hurried to the crowded bar and procured Lili a glass of champagne. She had nodded politely when I asked if she wanted a drink, only to inform me – after the exorbitant transaction was complete – that she abstained from alcohol. I did as well, leaving me stranded with a bubbling glass of expensive regret. A nearby gentleman, adorned in a garish purple tie, caught my eye. Yielding to impulse, I handed the flute to him.

‘Cheers, good man,’ he proclaimed, inspecting the golden liquid with an air of immense self-satisfaction.

‘A fine tie,’ I offered, scrambling to fill the awkward silence.

‘A gift from Gustavo Benecilli,’ he announced grandly. ‘A marvellous conductor.’

I nodded gravely, feigning recognition. I had no earthly idea who the man was, and I doubted he did either.

‘Have a mighty, jolly, and dandy fine evening!’ he declared, raising the champagne in a sweeping toast.

Lili smiled politely. ‘I like your tie.’

He pivoted to her, repeating his blessing with amplified gusto, ‘Have a mighty, jolly, and dandy fine evening, young lady!’

‘I suspect I have bestowed that drink upon the wrong man,’ I muttered, as the gentleman meandered away.

‘I am just glad you did not waste it,’ she replied.

‘Shall we seek out some fresh air?’

‘Where?’ she asked.

‘Upstairs,’ I directed, and guided her to the third-floor balcony that loomed over the black currents of the Thames. It was as congested as the foyer, but the river breeze rendered it far less suffocating.

‘Are you having a good time?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said placidly. ‘Fine. A marked improvement over remaining in my room and reading emails. And you?’

‘A very good time,’ I replied earnestly. ‘Thank you for accompanying me.’

I forcibly restrained myself from gushing further – from vocalising how grateful I was that she had finally accepted my invitation. Desperation is the antithesis of charm, even if it is the unrefined petrol that fuels the vast majority of human romance. She mercifully severed my ruminations with a pleasantry.

‘I love Mozart.’

‘As do I,’ I said quickly. ‘I adore almost all classical music. Even Wagner.’

‘What is wrong with Wagner?’

‘A great many people fall asleep. Or conversely, they feel much too awake – I suppose, provoked by all the screeching.’

She did not laugh. She did not even offer a polite, charitable chuckle. Her expression was blank. ‘Who is your favourite composer?’ she inquired.

I realised, with a slight sinking sensation, that she had never heard of Wagner. Perhaps introducing her to his catalogue would be akin to a romantic baptism by fire – using Lohengrin or Tristan und Isolde to casually douse her in flames. No, not suitable for a first date. My thoughts spiralled before I remembered I was required to answer.

‘Bach,’ I said, drawing out the vowel until I sounded like a lost sheep.

‘Me too,’ she agreed. ‘I love the Messiah piece.’

‘Ah, that is Handel,’ I corrected, an automatic reflex of my factual mind. ‘But a magnificent choice! He is my second favourite.’

‘Oh.’ A flush of embarrassment crept up her neck. I cursed my own pedantry. Perhaps she had meant one of Bach’s Passions, or a Mass, which inherently feature the figure of the Messiah. Regardless, the last thing I desired was to make her feel uncultured. I slapped my own thigh in private penance.

We stood in a companionable, if somewhat strained, silence, gazing across the murky river towards Somerset House – two dreamers orbiting parallel worlds. For a fleeting instant, it felt as though the cloud between us might shift, drawing us inwards.

Then the intercom shattered the illusion. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s concert will recommence in five minutes.’

Just like that, daydreams evaporated, and Bruckner commenced.

It was a literal assault, and not in the service of beauty. My eardrums throbbed, as if Bruckner himself had marched down from the nineteenth century, trumpets blazing, to remind the auditorium of the crushing, apocalyptic weight of human sin. Who, I wondered bitterly, had decreed that an evening of divine, airy Mozart should be coupled with such loaded Catholic penance? Bruckner’s Fifth: a prolonged musical migraine divided into four excruciating movements.

Lili, naturally, sat through the entirety of it with an unnerving, serene endurance. Afterwards, as the applause finally ceased, I turned to her with a raised eyebrow that silently asked, Well? She offered me a polite cheek-clench – the universal gesture for, It was dreadful, but I shall survive it.

‘I am not an admirer either,’ I whispered, nodding in solidarity. ‘Not even close.’

Still, we murmured our mutual agreements that it had been worth staying for the latter half. We exited the Royal Festival Hall and traversed the Waterloo footbridge, through the throngs of humanity. By the time we reached Tottenham Court Road to descend into the Northern Line back to Golders Green, I had depleted my reservoir of conversation entirely. I would have liked to perform some gallant gesture – like offering her my jacket – but the evening was far too mild, and the garment itself would have only burdened her.

The tube, as is the unbending rule of London for highly sensitive people, or any soul, was a trial. I covered my ears against the metallic screeching of the tracks, a racket that did not appear to disturb Lili, as she had driven her earphones firmly into her ears. We returned to our shared house with no lingering kiss by the door – merely a mutual, weary retreat to our respective bedrooms.

‘I enjoyed the concert,’ she called softly, before vanishing down the corridor.

‘Tea in the kitchen?’ I offered, though my voice lacked conviction.

‘Thank you, but I am exhausted. Work tomorrow,’ she replied.

And that was the end of it. The date was over. We were still friends, certainly. Lovers? Definitively not.

Had I been an epic failure? It was highly probable. I had attempted to purchase her affection with champagne, only to gift the libation to a purple-tied madman. My heart had raced rapturously during the Mozart, and I had falsely assumed hers was racing alongside mine – until I realised the genius of the music, not my own presence, had done all the lifting. We had agreed upon the importance of quietude, which I had chalked up as a victory, though it was likely mild politeness on her part. I had surrendered the aisle seat to her, though not without an internal mourning, as I covet it adoringly for its legroom and proximity to the fire escape. I had listened dutifully to the lamentations of her visa troubles and her frustrations regarding the capital’s cost of living, coupled with her father’s steadfast refusal to finance a mortgage. High expectations indeed. The evening had proceeded reasonably well. Why, then, was there no spark?

Perhaps I was judging myself too harshly. Perhaps the indignities of house-sharing had assassinated the mystery. She simply knew too much of my reality: my grim breakfast routine of soggy cornflakes, my shower schedule, and the miseries of our shared toilet, where the flush reverberated through the floorboards and the extractor fan shrieked for a repair. Hardly a foundation for romance.

Worse still, there were the evenings I had audibly sniffed her pork stir-fry with regret, prompting Zach to announce to everyone that I was a ‘kosher Christian,’ behaving ‘just like Christ Himself.’ It is true that I abstain from pork, but I am not so spiritually petty as to rule dietary preferences a dealbreaker in matters of the heart. So no, I held no grudges against Lili for the lack of a spark between us. Perhaps the failure was not mine. Or perhaps it was. Or, more likely, my humdrum domesticity had already flushed any potential romance down the plumbing.

Nat, my other housemate, existed in sheer opposition to Lili. Rather than projecting calm, she thrived in chaos; her energy was a high-pitched hum that left one dizzy just standing in her vicinity. Yet I often wondered if that was the secret to thriving in this world: a persistent, manic momentum, laced with a dash of audacity veering on madness.

‘Harry,’ Nat called over the kitchen counter the following evening. ‘When are you taking me out?’

I paused, mid-sip of a bitter herbal tea. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I am joking,’ she laughed, a mischievous glint in her eye. Then leaning over the counter, she dropped her voice. ‘That being said, how did it fare? Lili is fond of classical music?’

‘She is,’ I said guardedly.

‘That is splendid!’ Nat clapped her hands together with jarring force. ‘So, did you kiss?’

I felt a treacherous heat rise in my cheeks. ‘How could we?’ I muttered, tilting my head cautiously towards the corridor that led to Lili’s door.

Nat rolled her eyes with theatrical agony. ‘It is effortless. By the river. On the footbridge boasting a panoramic view of London. That is the exact place where millions of couples unite. Do not tell me you failed to walk her across it.’

‘We crossed it,’ I admitted. ‘But it was heavily congested. A solid wall of human flesh.’

Nat slapped me hard upon the shoulder. ‘Next time,’ she decreed. ‘You will manage perfectly fine. There is always another chance.’

Nat and Zach had been operating a relentless, covert mission to pair me with Lili since she had taken up lodgings six months prior. I truly needed to alleviate their pressure, which provided all the more reason to continue the arduous pursuit of falling in love. Falling in love. The mere phrase stirred a faint nausea in my stomach.

A few weeks elapsed, and Lili and I ventured out for noodles. The restaurant offered generous portions of warm, comforting broth, and a faint, cleansing scent of soy and ginger hung in the air. I had deferred to her choice of venue as an act of trust in her taste. She seemed pleased by the concession, which imbued me with a vague, tentative optimism.

Zach’s counsel beforehand had been simple, and irritatingly confident: Be frank. Uncover her intentions. Do not squander her time. Is she going to be your mate or not?

‘I cannot possibly use the word mate,’ I had told him with severe gravity. ‘What word should I deploy instead?’ I asked.

‘Sweetheart,’ he had replied, devoid of irony.

The anxious moment arrived between the courses, our bellies momentarily pacified by the rich broth. I drew a sharp breath and braced my spine. ‘Lili. Can I be your sweetheart?’ I blurted it out, and the words struck the air like a cannonball crashing through the floorboards.

She blinked rapidly, her brow knitting in confusion. ‘What is that?’

The gambit had landed with all the grace of a rogue dumpling plunging into boiling water. Thinking with desperate speed, I pivoted. ‘Oh, it is… It is a dessert,’ I stammered. ‘Like a sweet confection, pressed into the shape of a heart. I suspect they do not serve them here. Never mind.’

She burst into melodic laughter. ‘You’re so sweet,’ she said, a genuine warmth in her smile. ‘I knew what you meant. I was just teasing you. Sorry; it really is a bad habit of mine.’

‘Oh,’ I uttered, caught between relief and humiliation. Before my pride could recover its footing, she intercepted.

‘You need only ask if I want to be your girlfriend. But… Actually, I must ask that you do not.’

‘What?’

She let out a long sigh. ‘I am sorry. I’m not prepared for that. I hope you can find it in yourself to understand.’

‘That is perfectly fine,’ I lied smoothly. ‘But how long is the required waiting period?’

She did not laugh at my weak deflection. She replied evenly, her eyes dropping to the table. ‘I don’t know. I have genuinely enjoyed our time together. But there is a truth I must confess.’

‘Alright.’

‘I am not staying here much longer.’

‘Are you relocating to Jupiter?’ I asked, the absurdity masking the sting.

‘No. China.’

It amounted to the same thing. There was absolutely no timeline where she would be my sweetheart across that insurmountable expanse of landmass and sea. The matter was categorically closed. At the very least, I had been granted clarity. We continued our sporadic, platonic outings for a few more months, until the inevitable occurred: Lili packed her life into boxes and returned to the East.

‘We can stay friends, of course,’ she had promised, her voice laced with kindness, her eyes brimming with a pity I could only resent.

I wept on the day of her departure, though I kept the grief strictly cloistered, choking back the physical ache as I watched her descend into the cavernous pit of the Underground. Her parting gaze had been entirely unreadable – perhaps it was sympathy, but it certainly contained no light of a shared future.

Zach informed me later that Lili was simply a soul troubled by the concept of love. ‘It all comes down to life experience,’ he offered philosophically. ‘Do not fret; we shall secure a new lodger soon enough.’

And indeed, a new tenant did arrive to claim the vacant room. Her name was Khatia – a pianist hailing from Budapest, no less. She integrated quickly, cementing a fast and boisterous friendship with Nat.

‘Just a fair warning,’ Nat advised me one morning, tossing a thick green scarf over her shoulder. ‘Khatia has endured a rather traumatic history with men. She is not seeking romance, so do not entertain any grand illusions, regardless of what nonsense Zach has fed you.’

By this juncture in my life, I was more than willing to concede that earthly love was vastly overrated. It routinely inspired fear, profound confusion, and humiliation far more frequently than it yielded joy or holy gratitude. I firmly resolved to keep my head bowed and exclude myself from the circus altogether.

But then, Khatia found herself in possession of a spare ticket to a lunchtime recital at the Wigmore Hall.

‘I cannot attend,’ Nat declared flatly.

‘Why on earth not?’ I inquired.

‘Audition,’ she replied sharply. ‘You go.’

And so, bound by the obligations of our friendship, I went.

Khatia had immense vocal stamina. She was endlessly, effortlessly chatty. As we walked, she detailed her journey to London to study at the Royal College of Music. I silently guessed her age, wondering if she was a full decade my junior – a glaring reminder of my own creeping mortality.

We took our seats in the splendid, hushed hall, in the reverent anticipation of great art. But Khatia was not one to yield to the sanctity of silence.

She raked her eyes critically up and down my frame, and declared, ‘You are handsome.’

I blanked, thoroughly derailed.

‘But I absolutely do not date my housemates. I’ve walked that path before, and it leads only to ruin, you know.’

‘Oh, you need not worry,’ I fumbled, my face burning. ‘I am here for the immaculate taste in music.’

The very millisecond the words escaped my lips, I repented. She elevated her chin with a sharp haughtiness, acting as though I had just delivered a fatal insult to her self-worth.

‘If you must know the reason why… Well, it is a rather long story,’ she announced dramatically, possessing extremely little awareness of whether I harboured the slightest desire to listen – which, out of an ingrained politeness, I pretended I did. ‘But my former partner was a bastard. An absolute bastard. He was my landlord, slash boyfriend, you know?’

I nodded solemnly. I did not know.

‘You know, he was incredibly charming at the genesis of it,’ she pressed on, ‘but then, as is the ancient flaw with so many men, he revealed himself to be borderline insane. The dreadful eagerness to drag me into his bed…’

She tirelessly punctuated her sentences with ‘you know,’ operating under the delusion that we shared some universal understanding of her plight. I did not possess a clue. Yet this was the dialect of turbulent youth, and I resigned myself to acting as her confessional. In a strange fashion, it felt flattering to be selected as the receptacle for her worldly grievances.

But I was beyond relieved when the recital commenced, and the uninterrupted silence fell. Within minutes, I had forgotten that I was seated beside a female companion. The music – delicate, soaring, transformative – swept over me in a purifying wave. For a singular, hallowed hour, I was severed from all earthly distractions, from the clumsy longings of the flesh, and the grinding awkwardness of my own existence.

It struck me then, with the clarity of a tolling bell: I was happiest when I was wholly unanchored from the pursuit of another.

If no one else in this fractured world was destined to be the one, then I found myself liberated. I would simply endure, and perhaps even flourish, in the quiet, undisturbed sanctuary of my own soul, relatively unburdened.