Loveless(50)

‘Oh.’ I didn’t know how I felt about that. What I felt was so whole – it didn’t feel like two different things.

‘Jess – she’s aromantic, meaning she doesn’t feel romantic attraction for anyone. She’s also bisexual. She won’t mind me telling you that. She finds a lot of people physically attractive, but she just doesn’t fall in love with them.’

Isn’t that sad? was what I wanted to ask. How is she OK with that? How would I be OK with that?

‘She’s happy,’ said Sunil, like he’d read my mind. ‘It took her some time to feel happy with herself, but … I mean, you met her. She’s happy with who she is. Maybe it’s not the heteronormative dream that she grew up wishing for, but … knowing who you are and loving yourself is so much better than that, I think.’

‘This is … a lot,’ I said, my voice quiet and a little croaky.

Sunil nodded again. ‘I know.’

‘A lot a lot.’

‘I know.’

‘Why do things have to be so complicated?’

‘Ah, the eternally wise words of Avril Lavigne.’

I didn’t know what to say after that. I just stood there, processing.

‘It’s funny,’ said Sunil after a few moments. He looked down, as if remembering an old joke. ‘So few people know what asexuality or aromanticism are. Sometimes I think I’m so wrapped up with Pride Soc that I forget there are people who’ve just … never even heard these words. Or have any idea that this is a real thing.’

‘I-I’m sorry,’ I said instantly. Had I offended him?

‘Oh my God, you have nothing to be sorry about. It’s not in films. It’s hardly ever in TV shows, and when it is, it’s some tiny subplot that most people ignore. When it’s talked about in the media, it gets trolled to hell and back. Even some queer people out there hate the very concept of being aro or ace because they think it’s unnatural or just fake – I mean, you heard Lloyd.’ Sunil smiled sadly at me. ‘I’m glad you were curious. It’s always good to be curious.’

I was curious now, that’s for sure.

And I was also terrified.

I mean, that wasn’t me. Asexual. Aromantic.

I still wanted to have sex with someone, eventually. Once I found someone I actually liked. Just because I’d never liked anyone didn’t mean I never would … did it?

And I wanted to fall in love. I really, really did.

I definitely would someday.

So that couldn’t be me.

I didn’t want that to be me.

Fuck. I didn’t know.

I shook my head a little, trying to dispel the hurricane of confusion that was threatening to form inside my brain.

‘I should … go home,’ I stammered, feeling suddenly like I was being a huge bother to Sunil. He probably just wanted to have a nice evening, but here I was, asking for a sexuality lesson. ‘I mean – back to college. Sorry – um, thank you for explaining about … all of that.’

Sunil gazed at me for a long moment.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I really am glad you came along, Georgia.’

‘Yeah,’ I mumbled. ‘Thank you.’

‘Pride Soc is here for you,’ he said. ‘OK? Nobody was ever there for me, until … until I met Jess. And if I hadn’t met her …’ He trailed off, something crossing his expression that I couldn’t read. He replaced it with a familiar calm smile. ‘I just need you to know that people are here for you.’

‘OK,’ I said hoarsely.

And then I was gone.

I guess it’s fair to say a lot was spiralling in my brain on that walk home.

I was going to hurt Jason, or Jason and I were going to die together wearing wedding rings. Pip was thriving – maybe she didn’t need me any more. Why couldn’t I feel anything for anyone? Was I what Sunil and Jess were? Those super long words that most people hadn’t even heard of?

Why couldn’t I fall in love with anyone?

I passed the shops and cafés, the history department and Hatfield College, drunk students and locals stumbling around, and the cathedral, lit up gently in the dark, and that made me stop and think about how I had walked this path with Jason only a few hours earlier, and we had been laughing, and I had almost been able to imagine that I was someone entirely different.

When I got back to my room, the people upstairs were having sex again. Rhythmic thumping against the wall. I hated it, but then I felt bad, because maybe it was two people in love.

In the end, that was the problem with romance. It was so easy to romanticise romance because it was everywhere. It was in music and on TV and in filtered Instagram photos. It was in the air, crisp and alive with fresh possibility. It was in falling leaves, crumbling wooden doorways, scuffed cobblestones and fields of dandelions. It was in the touch of hands, scrawled letters, crumpled sheets and the golden hour. A soft yawn, early morning laughter, shoes lined up together by the door. Eyes across a dance floor.

I could see it all, all the time, all around, but when I got closer, I found that nothing was there.

A mirage.





‘GEORGIA,’ a voice said – or screeched, rather – as I entered the Shakespeare Soc rehearsal several days later.