Names and certain identifying details have been changed for privacy.

On Memories

My dad’s spag bol is ‘famous’, though the only time it’s been tasted by an actual Italian, they said it was too sweet. My dad won’t hear any critique, though, and still cooks it the same way, most recently on my last visit with him before I moved away. The special secret ingredient is a frozen cube of celery. Sometimes he cooked it while I was at school, and when I got home in the afternoon, I played outside along the side of the house past the kitchen exhaust fan and smelled it bubbling away. We often made it together, and I wore a little custom apron, stood on a stool to reach the stove and stirred the sauce. I earned many burns on my forearms; my father coated them in Lurpak butter, slightly salted, and told me not to cry.

On Anal

Sometimes, Killian and I shared our little fantasies. I wanted him to come into my apartment at midnight, find me naked on my bed and take me without saying a word…He wanted anal sex. We’d tried last summer, but I hadn’t really enjoyed it. I’d been twenty-six then, easy-going and eager to please. At twenty-seven, I valued my asshole. I told him, over WhatsApp, that I didn’t want to do it with him (or anyone). When he asked why, I explained that it hurt, but really, he should’ve just said ‘no worries’. More than that, it made me feel like maybe the sex we had wasn’t good enough, like I wasn’t enough. He wanted something I didn’t enjoy and couldn’t give him. I figured eventually he would want anal again, and he’d go elsewhere, which meant we probably couldn’t get married. There were other reasons, but this felt the most concrete. He assured me that he was very satisfied, and promised not to ask for it ever again.

I was on all fours later that evening, Killian’s hands butterflyed across my back, his thumbs in the indent of my spine, gripping my waist; trembling as he finished inside me. Afterwards, he told me that he noticed something.

You shaved your ass. Did you do it to tease me?

Tease you?

Yes. It’s like you’re teasing me with what I can’t have. I’m confused; you said you don’t want it.

It hadn’t even been 24 hours.

No…Well, I usually try to shave everything.

My face is hot.

I feel like an idiot now, he says. He looks embarrassed and says he feels old. He looks it.

I’m quiet—I don’t bring up his promise.

He tells me that I’ve sucked all the joy out of the room, and I try to brush it off. I force a smile onto my face that doesn’t reach my eyes and roll over. I’m still awake when Killian says he is having a bad trip from an edible. I offer to leave, hoping he’ll tell me to go, but he says he can’t be alone. I turn on a lamp and fetch him some water, give him affirmations to repeat, and stroke his hair. I know that he’ll blame me for this. I hardly slept, and when we woke up together he was distant, still off balance. I wasn’t sure I’d see him again, and took a detour on the way home to think about it longer, troubled mostly at the thought that other times, my asshole had been hairy when I hadn’t meant it to be.

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On Relationships

My last ex-boyfriend dated a girl who posted their entire relationship online. I’d been devastated at first, seeing him move on so quickly. But then slowly, I began my own parasocial relationship with her, learning about her skincare routine, then worse, their couples activities; all things I’d loved to do with him. I was titillated when they broke up, and she posted a seething exposé about it on TikTok. I filmed my reaction to it and debriefed with girlfriends over lunches, dinners, and cocktails one by one so I could tell the story as many times as possible. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. He and I reconnected months after; I acted surprised when he told me about her, only feeling genuine shock when he revealed that she’d hit him on several occasions. You can’t believe everything on the internet, I suppose, and I learned I probably shouldn’t idolise relationships I saw online, but still did anyway.

Killian and I texted back and forth a little, joking about the mundane, and he asked for the video of him splitting the G. I told him he’d gotten me sick and asked for some soup. I didn’t hear from him for four days. Saturday, I was recovered enough to be furious. After my morning walk and latte with Luke, I crafted a message that told him this behaviour fell well below what was expected of an intimate partner. He replied almost immediately, affectionately calling me baby, and said he’d been busy. Busy?

I texted Chelsea screenshots and received a series of expletives—who the fuck is too busy to text back after four days, especially when the woman he’s seeing is sick? I ranted, incredulous about how I logged onto Netflix and H-B-fucking-O and didn’t see him in any of the new releases, and he wasn’t on the Spider-Man press tour either. I’d spent the last week glued to my phone, watching Tom Holland and Zendaya junkets, certain he’d never told her he was busy. They were the epitome of love—perfect. Killian was just a struggling artist at thirty-seven, and I’d never held it against him until that moment.

I hated the word busy.

On Breaking Up

Killian calls twice on Monday. He knows the first won’t ring since my phone is always on DND. I call back hours later, and he answers, solemn. I ask if he’s alright, and he tells me he’s just found out a friend died. I tell him I’m sorry for his loss, and suggest we talk another time then. He says no, insisting, and I think about how unfair it is—I won’t be able to say what I need to, because his friend just died and I’ll seem like a bitch.

The conversation goes badly; I cry and start secretly recording when he tells me we’re having an adult conversation and I need to calm down. He sounds like my dad. After an hour on the phone, overwhelmed, I ask to stop. Frustrated, he says he doesn’t think it’s fair that he has to submit to me. We hang up, and I have a panic attack. I send him a voice note I’d recorded earlier in the week, about how I wasn’t so good at casual. I’d said all the things I couldn’t in that hour. After listening to it, he sends a text apparently breaking up with me, though I’m not sure, so I ask ChatGPT, which isn’t sure either.

Confused, I ask him out for coffee the following week. He looks annoyingly handsome in a crisp shirt and doesn’t take off his Ray-Bans. Things are really, really over. I don’t argue or beg, even when he tells me he enjoys his freedom and liked not having to think about a partner every day. We finish our drinks, a Perrier and full-fat Coca-Cola respectively, and when he asks to split the bill I go ahead and pay the ten euros myself. We walk a little ways together before he has to go toward the metro, lingering a moment, exchanging a painfully brief hug and telling each other to take care. I manage the three-minute walk home without incident, only sobbing once I cross the threshold.

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On the Final Fuck

The last time we’d had sex, I’d gone over to Killian’s apartment with a bottle of expensive gin and my tiniest panties. He drew me into his darkened flat, kissing me before I’d even had the chance to set down my bag or slip off my loafers. “You’re late,” he moaned into my mouth, hungry. I broke away, feeling too hot, and asked him to make me a drink. I stripped down to my underwear while he was in the kitchen, and meandered in as he cut the limes. He was easily distracted, and kissed me again, reaching down to my waist, but I got away quicker this time and told him to bring my G&T to the living room, where I’d be waiting.

Eventually, I found myself in his bed, breathless at dusk. Jazz played softly over the speaker; candlelight danced and flickered against the wall. I told him that this was the best sex I’d ever had, and for once I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, not looking at him expectantly. I didn’t look at him at all. I hoped it would be like this with the love of my life, and only imagined it might even be better.

I felt his gaze shift over my naked body, my left foot in his hand. He said it was the best for him too, and I believed him. He gently tugged on my foot, and my legs fell open easily, inviting him into me. He found my centre with his mouth, bringing me to climax quickly—he knew me. Before I could think, I felt the length of him push inside, and my legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. I moaned louder with each thrust, closer to the precipice, and he whispered against my neck, “Cochon, you’re going to come again already, aren’t you?” I bit his shoulder in response, his flesh muffling my cries as I exploded, and he was right there with me, grunting his own release.1

On Men

23:27 Chelsea - I think the guy I went on a date with just now is bisexual.

A month has passed since writing anything other than snarky responses to my friend’s messages. I am in Seville, single and celibate. I deleted my Instagram and TikTok apps, deciding that I’ve squandered enough of my youth doomscrolling. It works. I manage to watch the last half of Bend It Like Beckham without distraction, and at bedtime, I open my Kindle; sometimes I even read. Each evening, I make dinner for myself—paella, linguine with the leftover seafood, pan con tomate, and Buldak noodles from the convenience store. When the afternoons are too hot, I wander into town for ice-cold Cruzcampo. I only occasionally think about Killian, and the time he let me put a finger in his ass. I’ve been happy all day, then gone to bed, turned off the lamp, and burst into tears. I haven’t figured out why.

I attempted oil painting one afternoon and wasn’t immediately good at it, so I haven’t tried it since. At nine each evening, I think, I should paint, and then I say, No, it’s too late now once I get everything set up. I promise I’ll do it again tomorrow. I had phone sex, only once, with a guy from London, and I rubbed at my clit furiously enough that I managed an orgasm, but there’s no pleasure in it. I delete the picture of his penis the next day. The yappy dog in my building barks incessantly. I want to know more Spanish so I can tell it to shut up. I consider that I should probably end things with the phone sex guy, but then there will be no man in my life. I consider attending church, but that feels extreme. I’m hungry, I think, ravenous.

^{Previous stories in the series include: After Hours, Soft Exit, and The Parts Between. New stories every Monday.}

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I met you on Tinder after being properly single for only a month.

I was instantly attracted to you. Your profile had only three photos, and I don’t think you even wrote a bio. The first picture was in black and white. You wore a singlet that revealed a patchwork of tattoos on your left arm: the Virgin Mary on your bicep, accompanied by a goblet, an eagle on your forearm and rosary beads wrapped around your wrist. I can’t remember who messaged who first; I think it was you. It must’ve been something about my own bio, my profile similarly bare, stating only that I was looking for someone to meet me in Paris on my upcoming trip. You told me that you’d be in London around that time, having planned to move there, as lots of Australian twenty-somethings do, and you’d always enjoy an excuse to take the Eurostar.

I spoke to you about my law subjects and tried to impress you in any small way; I’d decided that you were out of my league before we’d spoken. Your last message to me on the app was that you found me “sensational”, that you could talk to me forever, but needed to get some sleep. You offered me your number, and I texted you so that you’d have mine. Soon after, we had a date planned; we would go to a bar in Brunswick for a drink. When I met for lunch with a friend the following day, you were all I could talk about.

I went through all the feminine rituals of getting ready—meticulously applied makeup, shaved my legs, wore a skirt that was just short enough to intrigue, but not so much that you’d get the wrong idea. When I arrived, I couldn’t see you; then suddenly you were behind me. I turned around, smiling. We sat at a table outside, and you asked me about my life, how I grew up, and what I liked. I rambled on for hours, but you looked at me intently and listened, and kept buying me drinks even though I offered to get my own. I was so hoping you liked me back. You were a little older; you’d lived a bit more than I had, seen different things, and I put you on a pedestal out of my own insecurity. You offered to drive me home, and when you parked at the front of my building, I lingered in the car for a while. We spoke more freely this time—the bar buzz had worn off a little now, and you prompted me to ask you questions since I’d neglected to on our date.

I asked you about your childhood trauma, expecting you’d make a joke, or worse, tell me you’d had a perfectly normal upbringing, and I’d resent you for it. Instead, you told me that when you were twenty-one, your mother killed herself, and that you had been the one to find her.

I had bypassed favourite colour, favourite film; I knew you intimately now in a forever kind of way. I might’ve guessed your favourite colour and forgotten, but I’ll always know this about you. I will always be a witness to a deep secret part of your soul. So, when you looked over at me and asked if you could see me again, the only answer was yes—though I responded rather coquettishly with “mmhmm”. You smiled at this, as if I’d thrown you a little challenge, seeing that I wanted to seem cool. You said you had no interest in games, so we promised not to play them.

There was supposed to be a phone call the following day, but you texted instead while I was out shopping with a friend who stole a ring from the small boutique we were in: next week, dinner at a nice vegetarian restaurant (which is an oxymoron). I arrived first and sat nervously, taking in the main dining room filled with the most beautiful white peonies I had ever seen. I felt underdressed, especially when you showed up in a shirt and trousers. We ordered à la carte, with one of the courses being a charred wedge of cos lettuce that I recall not for the taste but for how fucking ludicrous it was. It is technically one of the worst meals I’ve ever had, but it’s one of my favourites.

After dinner, we walked to your car, where I found a book and a pair of boxing gloves in the passenger seat. You sheepishly moved them out of the way. This time you didn’t need directions to drive me home. When we arrived, we sat and spoke for hours about everything you don’t talk about when you’ve just met someone. We said things you’re not supposed to say to someone who is moving to the other side of the world, or someone who’s just gotten out of a relationship and was six years younger than you. Fuck it, we said them anyway. We looked at the clock on your dashboard and counted how many hours until we could see each other again for our third date the following day. I couldn’t bear to leave you; we were encapsulated in our own little bubble, music softly playing over the radio. You hadn’t made a move yet. Yes, I lived with my mother in our flat, so I could hardly invite you upstairs. I was insecure about how I looked. I wanted to—needed to—know that you liked me too.

When I finally asked you, the air changed, instantly thick with tension I hadn’t felt before, or since. This is the feeling I would chase in every relationship, every interaction after this. This moment I will never forget—this incredible feeling of wanting and yearning and sheer undeniable chemistry. You said there were not enough words.

I didn’t want to say goodnight, but we’d spent so long talking, and honestly, I had to pee; I’d been holding on for hours. I leaned across the console slightly, maybe pretending it was for an innocent hug goodbye, but it was just enough for you to know what I wanted, and you leaned across too, your hand grazing my jaw, and you kissed me. Tenderly and whisper-soft at first, then passionately, you devoured me. I walked upstairs in a daze, giggling to myself as my keys turned over in the lock. I got into bed with a smile, dizzy and delirious.

The third date was a disaster. We had been talking about having silly hobbies, and I thought it would be fun to play a game of mini golf. I didn’t remember being so bad at it because the last time I’d played, I was drunk at a work function. I can’t have thought I was decent enough to play a round in front of you. You arrived late again, only by a few minutes, and I was waiting for you outside on the phone to my mum, arguing about something silly. It put me in a stinking mood. We went in, and I played badly. My face was hot with embarrassment, which was only worsened by your insistence on calling it ‘putt-putt’. The two of us, illuminated by harsh neon light, tried to talk over too loud music, and of course, when you won, I was a sore loser.

Afterwards, we walked around the city, past the courts where I told you why each one was important, trying to regain some footing. You didn’t hold my hand, I assumed then; you did not enjoy public displays of affection. In the car, we talked about the meaning behind each of your tattoos. This time, I only stayed with you a few minutes before ascending to my apartment. I might’ve tried to talk for longer, but you said that you wanted to go to bed, and I didn’t realise you’d wanted me to join you. I didn’t even kiss you, which you called me out on in a text. I only responded the following morning after going straight to sleep in a huff. I was waiting for you to initiate, and you said that that was no fun.

Saturday we went to a friend’s gig—the place was almost empty. The boxing match you’d been training for had been cancelled, so for the first time, I got to see you tipsy and unguarded. Your friend sang a song that you wrote, and it was beautiful. I’d had no idea that you were a songwriter. I didn’t know many of the simple things about you, but those details were filled in while you were ordering us drinks. I learnt that you wrote lots of songs, played the guitar, and you liked me very much; he told me that I could be enough to stop you from moving to London as you had planned. I didn’t think too much about you moving away in that moment. I knew I had a British passport and a ticket to Paris; I could move if I wanted to. I was twenty, and anything was possible.

That night, your bedroom was lit only by the moon. Your hands were on my face, and when you pulled away for a moment, you looked at me and told me that I was so beautiful. You undressed me, kissing every inch of new skin revealed, and it felt like you worshipped me. I saw that sex could be exciting and passionate and gentle. I could enjoy it too; I was not just there as a vehicle for your pleasure. We didn’t sleep for hours, but when I finally closed my eyes, I remember thinking with a certainty that now frightens me, that I was in my husband’s arms.

Daylight revealed the subtleties in your room I hadn’t noticed the night before: books about love and poetry lined the fireplace. Next to them, a small easel with a set of oil paints, a blank canvas, and fragrances in beautiful glass bottles. I watched you roll on deodorant and dress yourself. You gave me a shirt to wear, and we got out of bed to drink coffee in the garden. It was a beautiful morning—one of my best. You drove me home later that day, and I wore that shirt well into the evening. It smelled like you. I use that cologne now; the glass bottle sits on my own shelf in my apartment in Paris, six years later.

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Names and certain identifying details have been changed for privacy. This piece contains references to mental health and suicidal ideation.

We were barely surviving the heat with my little Proline fan. Chelsea and I had suffered for days, alternating between the bench beneath my window and the bed. She lay there, feet dangling from the edge, toes painted brown. At midnight, I snuck away to sleep next to Killian, to feel the shape of him.

In the morning, he fetched pastries and fruit, and we sat in the same spots we did last summer, the tablecloth a faded red, the seat of a million meals. We were back in bed together when my mother called; I declined it, absorbed in him. The phone rang again and again. I finally answered to hear the shrill in her voice. My father had reported me missing to the Consulate; she wanted to know where I was.

I hadn’t spoken to him in a week. I’d been afraid to find out if he was sick, but more than that, I was scared of what it meant to have him in my life again like this. The boundaries I’d carefully crafted to protect me from him had crumbled in the last few years of us speaking again. He was starting to yell, to get angry—to abuse me.

The last time we’d spoken, he’d told me that the PET scan had lit up, bright yellow, the lump in his lung alive. I told him I was scared, that I was sad—my mother had cancer years before, and I was devastated to do all this again. My father told me I should go to therapy to talk about my “issues with my mixed-race identity”. There it was; I was the sick one, the one who needed help.

One morning, as early blue light settled over Paris, the open window coaxed me to it. My curtains hung there, and they were still, as I considered if I should crawl out, let myself fall onto the pavement below. Many moments passed before I retreated to bed, staying there, sinking into the mattress until my spine curled into a spring.

I blocked my father’s number on my mother’s instruction. “Chloe, I have sacrificed so much so that you can be happy. I need you to be happy.”

I observed the world around me, hoping it would reabsorb me into its fibres. I watched a man try to ride a Lime bike. The seat was too low, and he stumbled, kicking his leg out to catch himself, pausing to take a sip of wine from the glass in the basket before trying again. He laughed to himself, and the silver grills on his canines glinted against the brake lights of the cars passing him. I noticed another man, unbearably thin, rocking himself gently between drags of a cigarette at the bus stop. Perhaps his mother comforted him this way.

I left Killian’s apartment, unsure of where to go next, the tears spilling from my eyes before I’d even made it outside. Chelsea was at home, going about her morning. In the street, I called my father to scream at him, to tell him that it was too late for him to pretend what he’d done was an act of fatherly care. I wandered around, unable to stop myself from crying. The life I wanted felt like it hung from a million tiny strings, and they snapped one by one until I found myself on a park bench, alone.

Hours later, I made my way back home and put on a brave face for Chelsea and for myself. I did my makeup; Chelsea was meeting with her cousin so that we could all go out and dance together for Fête de la Musique. Later that night, Killian joined us, and for a moment, I could feel myself being tied back into life. Killian and I ventured out into the crowds together; Chelsea and her cousin splintered off to find other friends. On the walk home, he bought us watermelon juice, and we kissed for a little while at my front door before I went upstairs.

Chelsea went back to London, and I spent a week in hibernation. I barely spoke to my mother, checking in only to say: I’m fine. Eventually, the sounds of the street below drew me out. I left the apartment for a scoop of hazelnut ice cream. I made little trips to the shops. On Saturday, I found myself dancing once again. The heat finally broke, and the heavens opened, rain spilling from above onto me and the friends I made that night—strangers only an hour before—who tipped their faces up and called me their little party angel. Killian rang. At midnight, I made the journey to his apartment to sleep.

^{Previous stories in the series include: After Hours, Soft Exit, and The Parts Between. New stories every Monday.}

^{Image via Danielle McKinney}

^{Names and certain identifying details have been changed for privacy.}

When I was 11 years old, I was infatuated with Elliot Brown for what felt like forever, though it was about four years. When you’re so young, that is forever. That year, my friend Lily introduced me to The Sims 3 and taught me how to swear. I was an excellent runner, faster than all the boys in my class. I had crushes, but obviously nobody liked me back. I met him at the big kids’ daycare; we went to different schools. He thought I was ugly, but he wanted to be my friend.

I went to a private catholic college, baptised as a baby so I could be enrolled, though my parents are not religious. He went to a public school a few suburbs over, and we talked about the different subjects we were learning. He could teach me things about the solar system, and knew how to be reassuring when I’d been winded after falling off the monkey bars.

During book week, my school asked us to come in dressed as our favourite literary characters. We didn’t have enough money to rent a decent costume, and the books I read weren’t about black girls. I wore a strapless red dress from my mum’s boutique, borrowed one of her wigs and went as a princess. Elliot was absent that afternoon, and I’d really wanted him to see. The following day, one of my friends told him how beautiful I’d looked.

He always talked to me about the girls at his school, girls I imagined were much prettier than I was. They were white girls, petite, with straight hair and nice blue eyes; not curly-haired, tall and brown-skinned. One afternoon, he brought in a newsletter—his girlfriend was on the front page. We sat in the computer room, and I waited as he dug around in his backpack to reveal the crumpled black-and-white copy to show her to me. He told me then that he and I were just friends, and that’s all we would ever be.

Tyson made us a trio. He was taller, rougher, from a bad school and a few months older than us. Before he became our friend, he made a joke and called me a ‘niggerette’. Laughter bubbled out of me before I could register it as something mean, thinking it was clever and funny. A look of surprise passed over Tyson’s face. I could see he thought he might embarrass me, but he didn’t double down; instead, he smiled sheepishly. He’d been totally disarmed, and it seemed I’d earned a strange kind of respect. I was a cool girl who could take a joke. Elliot watched carefully, but did not say a word.

The boys showed me how to play pool, and we spent almost every afternoon together. Over a game, Tyson revealed to me that Elliot accidentally referred to me as his girlfriend once, when I was not there, and Elliot flushed with embarrassment. He became defensive, as if the idea of us together was so far-fetched and impossible. The other kids openly speculated about Elliot and me. A pretty blonde girl asked me if we were ‘together’ and I said no—scoffing.

They were both good friends, but Elliot and I were close. Both our parents were separated. Sometimes he’d have a weekend bag packed to stay with his father, and it made me less embarrassed about bringing my pink wheelie suitcase with me, too. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he filled his cheeks with as much air as he could, and I would poke them with my fingers until he blew out, finding his dimple when he smiled. He encouraged me not to close my eyes when shooting a basketball into the hoop, even though I was scared to open them and watch myself miss. At afternoon tea one day, he told the pretty blonde that the spot next to him was for me.

He was convinced I had a crush on him, and he was right, but I vehemently denied it. One afternoon, standing where our bags hung from hooks lined up along the wall, he asked me if I liked him. I said no, insisting that I didn’t and that we were just friends, as he’d said. He pushed me on it, pressing me to admit it. I stepped back from where he stood, refusing — afraid. I said something so mean to him that he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.

At school, I would talk about him with Lily, and the boys who sat in our desk cluster would overhear us, surprised that I had a male friend. Rhys teased me endlessly about my crush, and the following year, when I got my hair chemically straightened for the first time, he looked at me for a while, asking what was different. When I brushed the long strands over my shoulder, looking at him hopefully, he did not seem to notice. At the swimming carnival that afternoon, it got wet and went curly again.

“What happened to your hair?”

“What happened to your face!” Was my reply.

I wasn’t allowed to have a Facebook account, but I made one anyway in secret and used it to talk to Elliot whenever my dad was in town, and I got picked up instead of going to day care. I’d dash out of the car, running into my room to log on and see if he was online. I’d wait for that little green dot to appear next to his name. Our messages mostly consisted of brief notes, saying hello to each other and asking what the other was up to, but it thrilled me to hear the notification ping. My mum found out about it one day when I was on the computer in her living room, and she saw a Facebook notification she thought was hers. I’d had privacy at my dad’s house, but with my mother, I was exposed. She made me delete the account immediately.

I had no way to keep in touch with him over the summer, too scared to make another one. The following year, we were too old for day care. I thought about him every night, playing out a fantasy where he was my boyfriend and we were high school sweethearts like I’d seen in the movies. I’d cry sometimes, when I was especially lonely, and play Queen’s Greatest Hits on the iPod nano I got for Christmas. Every year on April 11^th, I’d remember his birthday and hope he was spending it well. Sometime in high school, Joshua, a boy I’d kicked in the shins as a child, told me he hung out with Elliot at the skate park. They spent afternoons together, and even spoke about me. It was Joshua who shared that Elliot had loved me all along; the revelation shocked me. But by then, it was too late. We weren’t those children anymore.

^{Image via Pinterest}

Names and certain identifying details have been changed for privacy.

It was raining when I got to the arena. People were milling about in heavy Rick Owens boots and bomber jackets. I felt out of sorts — I was supposed to meet Killian at his apartment an hour earlier for dinner and sex before the concert. When he arrived, I pressed my forehead to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart for a moment. He teased me gently about my mishap with the Navigo app not working, the Uber I had to take, and standing in the rain. His hands found the sides of my face as he pressed a gentle kiss to my lips, the crisis resolved.

I’d bumped into FKA Twigs outside a bar two weeks prior and excitedly told Killian about it. The next day, he bought us tickets to see her live. Her music meant the most to me when I was 16 and attended a predominantly white school. She was weird, imperfect, talented, and mixed-race, and she was dating Robert Pattinson, which made her elite in my mind. I’d listen to her when I’d stay late at school to paint oversized landscapes and images of the orangutan I loved at Perth Zoo. My most ardent companions did not speak to me directly, but they understood.

My best friend was due to visit me in Paris for the first time, and I had a couple of hours to kill before collecting her from Gare du Nord at midnight. Happy hour at most bars in Paris lasts several hours, so I got myself a spritz. Elias called, drunk and wanting to see me. It had been weeks, and our last conversation was an exchange of messages that ended with me calling him a waste of time. He wanted to excuse himself and explain what had been happening in his life over the last few weeks. I hung up and sent him my location.

He arrived 10 minutes later on a bike, wearing a navy blue suit and Saint Laurent sunglasses. I smiled over at him as he argued with the waiter about the kind of white wine he wanted to drink. Then he complained when the people who lent him a lighter at the table next to us were rude. He flirted with me, kissed my neck and smelled my hair, laughing when he guessed correctly that I’d used Cantu. He unbuttoned the top of my dress, then another, peeking down and retracting immediately, feigning overwhelm at the sight of my bra. We talked about sex, how he prefers the taste of a woman at the end of her day versus fresh out of the shower. I laughed until my cheeks hurt. He walked me to the metro station and kissed me again before I descended into the tunnels, certain he was watching.

Chelsea and I spent our first day in Paris together hunting for a salon that could do our braids in time for the weekend. The first was fully booked, but the owner walked us a few doors down and asked if they could do our hair. Inside, we were introduced to Mamie, who asked us how small we wanted our braids to be, what colour, and how long. I fetched us bottles of cold water from the corner shop, and we took turns separating bundles of hair extensions and passing pieces to the braiders. This time spent with soft, strange fingers pressing gel onto our scalps—nudging our heads in different directions—is sacred.

I used to sit on the floor between my mother’s legs when she’d do my hair for me. I’d touch the prickles on her legs until I was too old and wanted my hair chemically straightened to feel prettier at school. I peeked out between tangled strands and watched the barber work on the men there. One had his wife bring him dinner so he could sit and watch the Congo v Portugal match with the others. His meal smells of palm oil. I think of my mother, and her prickly legs.

We see Elias the following day. He rides through my neighbourhood on his bike and joins us for pizza. We talk about growing up in different corners of the world, the places we’ve been. We discover that his ex-girlfriend went to primary school with Chelsea in Botswana, the world shrinking and suddenly too small. Elias talked about his time there, and I decided that Chelsea would not like Killian; his sense of humour was different to ours, and his ability to relate to us in this way felt abstract and removed. Killian asked if I wouldn’t be too hot with my hair like that. I found the question absurd, but I was too tired to explain.

I could be one woman with Killian; I could allow him to soothe me, I could be someone who doesn’t argue. With Elias, I am an extension of a fantasy, a woman who is sexy and throws her head back to laugh with abandon, whose sharp wit is met at every parry. I cannot exist wholly as myself with either of them, but I don’t want to.

I keep the most tender parts of myself just for me. I want to always be the girl who reaches out gently to the back of her own head, to see how many braids still need to be done. I do not share her easily, keeping her — the version of me that did not want to be beautiful to anyone but her mother — tucked away. I sit with her, picking at the carpet beneath us.

^{Image via Pinterest}

Names and certain identifying details have been changed for privacy.

Act One: Forbidden Games

Killian.

It was a warm summer’s evening last year when I saw him. Andrea was driving her mother’s Peugeot, and I had my hand down between the console and my seat searching for her vape when I told her to stop the car. Outside Le Mansart, a tall figure stood against the bustling crowd.

“He’s beautiful,” I said breathlessly to Andrea as she parked.

He was still outside when I walked past him, glanced over my shoulder, and went straight inside. Andrea followed a few paces behind me, watching to see if he reacted—if he noticed me at all.

As we ordered our beers, she told me he looked, and I squealed with excitement. Pints in hand, we turned to the terrace to decide on a table. A spot opens up, and I take the seat facing him. From there, I can see him properly for the first time. He is tall, at least 6’4”. A black linen shirt worn loose and unbuttoned over a white singlet, bronzed skin catching in and out of view as he talks animatedly with his friend, Louis. Several minutes pass with looks between us when Andrea decides she’s going to the bathroom. We think he’ll come over while she’s gone.

We end up at Le Carmen, our friends have long gone home, and bathed in pink and blue light, we share our first kiss. The walk back to my hotel is short, and it’s only as he is undressing me that I remember three days prior, I had attempted to wax myself at home. I’d sat on my living room floor, legs spread with a mirror and a kit I’d bought from the grocery store. I’d lost my nerve halfway through, yelping as I ripped hair from my most intimate part, leaving behind uneven bald patches and blood. I stop him as he reaches for my trousers and tell him I’m going to freshen up.

I didn’t let him spend the night, making up a lame excuse about needing to wake up early for breakfast with my mother. It is a lie—she is not an early riser—but I wanted to sleep alone.

Act Two: Straight to Heaven

We had been seeing each other and talking every day while I was in Paris. My next stop was Seville, where I’d spend a week and a half gorging myself on ham and cervezas. I’d been there for a few days when I decided to join him in London for Carnival. The summer would be over soon, and I’d go back to my quiet life in Melbourne.

Andrea was there too, which reassured my mother. But Killian and I got caught up in our own world. He took us to a play in the West End, candlelit dinners with oversized oysters. I watched him take an afternoon swim at London Fields Lido while I read. On Saturday, we went to The Box, and I got too drunk. Back in our hotel room, I cried, overwhelmed and feeling sorry for myself. I woke up to blinding daylight, hungover. He’d consoled me through my tears the night before.

“You really like me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” was all I could say.

Act Three: Love, Don’t Be Shy

Killian invited me back to Paris to stay with him for a week. On our first night together, we went out, and I kissed him shamelessly in front of his friends. The second day was spent in perfect domestic bliss—I went grocery shopping while he worked, and when he finished, we met at the brasserie nearby for an aperitif. He asked when we would see each other again, once I went back to Melbourne. He suggested he might visit, and I promised to be in Paris by April. At home that evening, I cooked us my dad’s bolognese and played Tame Impala for Killian to listen to for the first time. The following day, we walked along the Seine River and watched as it glittered beneath the evening sun.

Dinner was booked at Lolo, in Pigalle. It was the first time we’d been back to the neighbourhood where we’d met six weeks prior. I let Killian order the wine, and I chose a few plates for us to share. We were eating our œuf mayonnaise in easy silence when he asked when we would talk about ‘us’.

My heart dropped.

I took a sip of Pinot Grigio to buy time before I asked what he meant.

He stopped eating too, turned his body toward me on our little barstools and levelled me with an expectant look.

I told him that nothing had really changed since our conversation in London. He hadn’t told me he liked me back. We’d said goodbye without knowing when we’d see each other again.

He said our feelings had clearly changed—we’d spent the last few days acting like a couple, but we weren’t.

I told him I didn’t know how to have this conversation.

He pressed on, saying he was worried about what would happen when I went home, how I would feel then. He didn’t want a long-distance relationship, didn’t want us to exist only in WhatsApp messages with an eight-hour time delay.

I told him to worry about himself—the words slipping out before they’d fully formed in my mind.

Shock flashed over his face before he gathered his features into neutrality.

I explained that I’d meant to say I’d be okay, and not to worry.

“Alright,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

I excused myself to smoke outside, unable to say no when he asked to join me. We shared a cigarette, and I watched the sun set behind him.

Act Four: Memento Mori

On my final morning in Paris, I wake up alone. Killian is eating breakfast in his usual spot when I find him. He tells me he won’t be home until later that evening, when he’ll get his spare key back before I go to the airport. The front door clicks shut, and I wait until I can no longer hear his footsteps in the stairwell before I cry.

Through tears, I stuffed clothes and toiletries into my suitcase; I washed the dishes, made the bed, and took out the trash. Once packed and dressed, I went to the brasserie to eat lunch and write him a letter so I could say goodbye and leave his keys under the mat.

As I sat there, I couldn’t make the words come out. I tried writing cruel things to make him feel bad, to reject and abandon him, but they looked ugly, and I tore the pages out of my journal. I wrote it again, thanking him for letting me stay in his home. I told him that his life was beautiful, and I hoped he would always be happy in it. He had touched my heart, and I would miss him and think of him fondly.

I stayed there all afternoon until he messaged me saying he had an hour between meetings and I could join him for a coffee. We sat outside and bickered about the bad mood of the past two days. He told me he’d thought I would come back to him—I didn’t realise I hadn’t.

That evening, I met him at his apartment. We sat on opposite ends of the couch before I crawled into his lap. He buried his face into my armpit, inhaling deeply, and I smiled into the top of his head. I gave him the letter and hid my face behind a cushion while he read it.

He took my suitcase down the stairs, and I followed, watching as he loaded it into the trunk of my Uber. I asked what he’d do next; he said he’d go for a walk. We kissed goodbye, and I thought he might’ve had tears in his eyes when he shut the passenger door and turned away.

I texted him when I got to the airport, and again when I landed in Melbourne. His replies were kind, but restrained. Every couple of weeks, he checked in — sometimes paragraphs about work, sometimes a voice note or a photo. He said visiting me would be impossible, and I replied with only three words. I tried to start conversations, but by December, I couldn’t anymore. I told him I didn’t want to stay in touch; he said he shared and respected my feelings. I didn’t hear from him again.

Act Five: Liaisons Dangereuses

Paris is beautiful in the spring, and I arrived the day before my 27^th birthday with all my worldly possessions in three suitcases. I stayed in Pigalle again for a few days, and Andrea and I went to Le Mansart to celebrate. I drifted out of conversation, watching the crowd, half expecting Killian to round the corner. Eventually, I moved into my apartment in Le Marais. On a walk, I discovered the bar he and I had gone to after our first date; I’d forgotten its name. I caught a cold and stayed home for a week, unable to do anything other than sleep and play on my phone whenever I could keep my eyes open. Louis messaged about his new theatre, and I promised to check it out when I recovered. Days later, I woke up to the trill of a notification on my phone.

Killian.

I ignored it; it was perfunctory, providing information about the theatre and the play he would be performing for the opening. The following day, it came again on Instagram. I replied briefly, saying that I was busy but would try to make it to a show sometime. I reasoned with Andrea that it would be rude not to attend, and besides, Louis had invited me first.

He sat atop a ladder in the centre of the theatre, covered in paint, but I knew him immediately. He did not move until the first scene began, and only looked at me during his final bow. When he caught my eye and nodded in gratitude, I nodded too.

I walked out holding my broken wine glass—I’d knocked it against the concrete pillar next to my seat during the play. I handed it to a bartender, apologising, and went out into the courtyard for air, unsure if I should wait around. I found Louis and congratulated him, and when he asked if I had spoken to Killian, I shook my head and decided to leave. Steps away from the exit, I heard his familiar voice, and Killian appeared in front of me, drawing me into an embrace. He’d showered and smelled like himself.

My voice was shaky when I said hello, and I told him about my first few weeks in Paris. He insisted on buying me a Suze Moi, and I agreed to stay for 10 minutes. Back in the courtyard, he was suddenly surrounded by the other theatre goers who praised the performance. I stood aside and watched; he listened intently to each person who spoke to him, offering insights about how Louis produced the script in a matter of weeks, and the toll the character took on him. I listened for a while, waiting for him to look at me or tell his friends that he had someone he needed to speak to first.

I set my drink down, and when there was an opening in the conversation, I moved to say goodbye. His attention snapped to me. “You didn’t like the Suze Moi?” he asked, a quizzical look on his face. “It was delicious,” I said as I pecked his cheek. I turned away as he called after me that we should catch up sometime, and I kept walking.

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Names and certain identifying details have been changed for privacy.

It is early Saturday morning when I descend the four flights of stairs for the first time in days. I’ve been tucked away in my apartment, watching New Girl and painting my nails. Rubbish has been piling up near the front door. The street is quiet, and I pause just outside my building to let the cold air touch my face before making my way to the grocery store in search of breakfast. My keys fall down my pant leg — there is a hole in my left pocket.

At home, I boil eggs; the shells do not break easily. Paris is grey, and I look into my neighbour’s apartment while I eat. It is much bigger than mine; their living room is lined by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. In the evenings, I watch them sit together, taking turns fetching beer from the kitchen. Perhaps sometimes they watch me too.

It was Thursday afternoon when Elias called, and we spoke for half an hour. I haven’t seen him in weeks, but when I met him in May, we’d been inseparable.

I’d been out for a drink with my friend Amanda when we decided to go to La Perle. We took a lap to see if anyone interesting was around. Deciding the talent was good enough, we went to the bar to order drinks. I told her we’d spent enough money, and that I’d find someone to buy us this round within the next two minutes. Outside, I met Theo, who said bonsoir as soon as he saw me. He might’ve smiled at me earlier, but he wasn’t memorable. We were exchanging pleasantries when Elias appeared, tall, holding a cake box. There is a birthday party tonight, and the boys have invited us to join them. I suggested we have a drink first and shared a conspiratorial smile with Amanda when Theo went to the bar to order wine. Success.

The party is at a bar in the 6th Arrondissement. In the Uber ride over there, we cross the Seine, pass the Eiffel Tower, and listen to Wham, Michael Jackson and Luther Vandross. Amanda laughs as I pop my head out of the window, and my hair whips around in the evening breeze. It is Elias’s stepmother’s birthday. His father is there, and Theo makes sure to introduce us, embarrassing me. We take shots of tequila, and I help shield the flame as he lights the birthday candles. We dance to techno and house music; his brother is the DJ. We kiss, and it’s late when he asks to come home with me. I was uncertain; I had plans to see the man I’d been dating last summer the following day. My best friend sends me words of encouragement — it is good to have more than one man.

I forgot his name during and after our encounter, only committing it to memory in the morning when he connected to my Bluetooth speaker to play music as he showered. I saw his Spotify handle and wrote it down immediately. We decide to exchange numbers, and I smile to myself when he texts me that evening on my way to watch a play starring my former summer romance. Elias invites me to join him for drinks afterwards, and I decide that’s better than sitting around the theatre waiting for the actors to come out. He is at a bar in Le Marais, not far from my place. He and Theo were seated on the terrace smoking when I arrived. Elias ordered me a glass of red, then a bottle of Disaronno to share. We take shots, making sure we say “santé” with eye contact for every glass.

Eight drinks later, Theo asked me why I’m single. I said that I date without expectation, I’m going with the flow. It was the line used when trying not to appear overeager. I wouldn’t have been sitting there if I thought the boys were bad-looking or broke. They wouldn’t be buying my drinks if they didn’t find me beautiful. I rejected the notion that women should date and settle down with the “nice guys”. Sure, he’s not your type, but he’s got such a wonderful personality — you should really give him a chance! Men were allowed to be superficial, and I decided it was my right to do the same. There was no reward for women who pretended chemistry wasn’t just as important to them as it was to men. I asked Theo if he’d ever even approached a girl he wasn’t physically attracted to, and turned my attention sharply back to Elias, my eyebrow raised expectantly. He said no, and it’s one of the few times in my life that I was confident a man was honest with me. Elias was quiet; the truth was ugly.

That evening, Elias stayed with me and didn’t leave until days later. We came up for air, enjoying long lunches and late dinners in the neighbourhood. He picked up the bill each time. I took pictures of him wearing my sunglasses, thinking he looked cute, and sent them to my friends to show off. He sat on the bench beneath my window, smoking cigarettes and eating mandarins from the fruit basket on my little table. His last relationship had ended only a month prior; he’d dismissed her initially, saying she wasn’t his type, but he fell in love with her anyway. He told me he wanted to look at the woman of his life and think, “Wow, I can’t believe she’s mine.” While he was with me, she was in their old apartment, taking out the last of her things. I did not feel vindicated by my own summations; I found it rather sad. Later, when he kissed me, I tasted citrus and Marlboro Golds. Eventually, he went back to his empty flat, and I sat at the laundromat for an hour washing my sheets.

Below, I hear a woman arguing on the phone in the street. I shut my window, grateful for the silence.

My father thinks he has cancer.

A nodule in his left lung has doubled in size in less than 12 months. He is 75, a smoker for most of his life. A quick search online tells me the chances are high. He has been telling me to prepare for his death since I was small, believing that he wouldn’t be around long enough to see me graduate from university, get married and have babies. During the 7 years that we did not speak to each other, I considered that I may never see him again. I made sure to connect with my cousin on Facebook, figuring that when my dad died, my uncle would tell her and then she would tell me. In my imagination, I would be living in a beautiful home with my husband, and I’d crawl into bed with him and tell him the news that my father is gone, and it would hurt, but I would be okay. I spent these years certain that I had made my peace with the inevitable, that I would be the rotten daughter who wouldn’t be there to hold her father’s hand when he dies.

When I was 21, I moved into my very own apartment. I’d been seeing a guy that I really liked, and he was supposed to help me move in, but things ended around the time that I’d signed the lease, and Melbourne went into lockdown. I was struggling with trying to fit the washing machine. I couldn’t get it into the European laundry, and I didn’t know what to do with the hose. I probably could’ve looked it up on YouTube or waited until the following day to call a handyman. Instead, I called my father. It was the first time I’d needed him in a very long time. His number was the same as it’s always been, and he answered on the third ring, laughing when I said, “Hello, it’s your daughter, Chloe”.

He called me a plonker - I am his only daughter, his only child. We spent 3 hours on the phone, chatting about my washing machine and what we’d missed from each other’s lives. He made me laugh, and I felt good; I had a dad again, a coveted thing - something I’d always deeply craved. He was not angry at me for the years of silence, and it’s not really something we talked about until he came to visit me in Melbourne years later. We watched a football match at the MCG and only stayed for the first half before the rain was too much, and we decided it would be better to find a cozy pub to sit in. There, over pints of Carlton Draught, I told him that I’d had to save myself. If we had continued to maintain a relationship at that stage of my life, I wouldn’t have survived. He told me he understood.

A CT and PET scan are scheduled for next week, with a potential biopsy to follow. I am in my apartment in Paris, putting up my curtain rod, which has fallen, and the screws have come out of the wall. I don’t have the drill he sent me as a housewarming gift years ago, and I’m struggling to figure out how to get this fixed without any tools when I start to cry. I do not yet live in a big home with a wonderful husband to console me. There is no one here to hold up the other side of the rod as I try to hang up these damn curtains. I need my dad, I think, but I do not call him this time, and I do not allow myself to sit on the floor in misery. I am here alone, and that has to be enough. I figure I can use some glue from my nail kit, and cure it with my UV lamp if I can hold the screws in place for just 60 seconds.

My father has always been good at making things. He would take old cigarette cartons and stick two milk bottle lids on each side to fashion little cars for me to paint outside in the afternoons when I would visit him as a child. In grade 5, he built Mount Etna out of chicken wire and cement, surrounded by little trees made out of 2-inch sticks and green card paper we got from the art supply store. When I was allowed to watch television with him, it was always the Australian Broadcasting Channel, as he abhors advertisements. Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson were our favourites, and if there was a recipe I liked the look of, he would take me to buy the ingredients, and we’d spend the afternoon in the kitchen together. I would get frustrated when he would take over our little projects, and we often had creative differences. Mount Etna was too flat - the chicken wire collapsing under the weight of all that cement, and I hated the shade of green he chose for the trees. He said that Nigella was an absolute pig when she’d sneak into the kitchen at the end of every episode to eat leftovers out of the fridge.

The curtains are hanging now, billowing gently in the evening breeze. My dad is on the other side of the world, likely sitting on the same deck where I painted those little cars, smoking a cigarette. We are waiting together to see what will come of next week. I am not ready to hear his voice, afraid in a way I wasn’t when I was 21 and hadn’t spoken to him in years. The certainty that I had then, that I’d made peace with it all, is gone now. I am too far away. A rotten daughter who won’t be there to hold her father’s hand on his deathbed. He was not there to hold his own mother’s hand when she died of lung cancer aged 86. He was away at work, on an oil rig somewhere far away, but my mother took me to the hospice to visit my Nanna, and I was able to see her the day before she passed. There was a massive lump protruding from her chest, and the tumour in her lung was the size of an orange. We were there to say goodbye - me, mum, my uncles and aunties. My father was absent. My Nanna had a seizure and wet herself, and we were all ushered out of the room.

I wasn’t allowed to wear black to her funeral the following Tuesday, as my mum thought that was too dark for a young child. I wore a long-sleeve t-shirt that said ‘L-O-V-E’ with a letter in each of the four squares across my chest. I held a single rose. I was seated next to my cousin and watched her as she sobbed, though tears did not fall from my own eyes. I did not understand death then, and now I worry that it looms ahead.

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For the last week in Western Europe, temperatures have exceeded 30 degrees. My little fourth-floor flat, overlooking a bustling street in Le Marais, was no exception. In a city where there are no beaches nearby, and air conditioning is impossible to find, the locals embrace the heat at Place De Vosges, or on a terrace drinking spritzes or pints of Bière Blonde with a cigarette in hand. Or better yet, you’ll spend it sweaty, tangled in the sheets.

My father often refers to his twenties as his mis-spent youth; a time in his life that still holds a lot of mystery for me, revealed only in fragments, usually after his third glass of Pinot Noir. On my walk home from my lover’s apartment this afternoon, I couldn’t help but wonder if we are more alike than I once thought.

Online, there is endless debate about how early adulthood should be lived, as though it can be diluted into a simple philosophy. The pendulum swings between two extremes.

On one side: the health-obsessed homebodies, filming themselves waking at 5 AM, returning to bed only to document the daily ritual of becoming their optimised selves. Disciplined, curated, asleep by 9 PM so they can do it again the next day. On the other: the partiers, rejecting the polished (and misappropriated) “clean girl” aesthetic for late bars, noise and excess.

We are told early and often that we must choose.

It’s another hot Saturday night, and Paris is alive even before the PSG match has started. Hearing the commotion below, I decided that I would be remiss not to find somewhere to watch the penultimate final.

I ended up at Le Bains, a nightclub beneath a stunning hotel where a room can be rented for in excess of $800 per night, but entry downstairs is free if you know the right guy. I don’t get home until after 5 in the morning, and I thought about the kind of woman who would be waking up then to go to pilates. A different kind of discipline, and certainly a different woman than I.

The following evening, I have a date. We would meet at Vavin to go see a cabaret performance put on by his colleague. Arriving late, we stand, and I fan myself with a folded-up flyer. In the centre of the theatre, a woman sets herself on fire and walks across shards of broken black glass.

I watch as the flames move across her skin and consider my father’s twenties. Whether he would have found himself in a room like this, with a woman beside him, if he knew, then what shape his life would eventually take. Perhaps the time wasn’t mis-spent at all. Perhaps youth is something to be richly enjoyed but lived carelessly, intensely and without any guarantee of what it might mean while it’s happening.

She swallows the fire, exhales the smoke, and just like that, she disappears into the wings. That’s the thing about being young: you spend it feeling like everything is burning, and then one day the flame goes out.