I’m 27 and met her when I was least prepared for someone like her—a confident 40-year-old writer at …

Im twenty-seven, and I met her at a time when I was about as prepared for someone like her as a goldfish is for a marathon.

It was at a tiny event a launch for a local magazine, which I stumbled into entirely by accident. A mate asked me to tag along because he needed help carrying boxes. I had absolutely nothing planned and was in dire need of a bit of cash, so off I went. She was sitting front row, scribbling in a black notebook, phone placed screen-down, her coffee well past its best before window. She barely seemed bothered by anyone, but when she spoke everyone went silent.

I later discovered she was a writer. She penned columns for a newspaper and a cultural magazine. Forty years old, but I didnt know that then. All I saw was a calm, self-assured woman who never raised her voice to make a point, mostly because she didnt need to.

When the event ended, I went up to herhad to get her signature for a receipt, pure logistics. She asked my name, stared straight at me and said, Do you always look like this, or is it just your nerves?

I laughed, loudly. Told her I hadnt a clue. She replied that she had a soft spot for people who dont pretend to be confident. That was the start.

We began exchanging messages. In the beginning, she wrote little; I wrote loads. I asked basic questions: what she did, where she lived, if she was studying anything. I didnt bother pretending about myself told her I still lived with my parents, worked whatever job I could find, scraped together a few pounds, and was trying to get started. She never made me feel inferior, but she never sold me any false hopes either. Right from the off, it was perfectly clear:

Im not looking for a relationship. Im at a different point in my life.

But despite it all, we started seeing each other.

Always at her flat. Immaculate, peaceful, crammed with books. She owned a car, had her own rhythm, her own life. I arrived by bus, sometimes feeling I was invading a world I had no business being in. She welcomed me without rush, without promises. Sometimes Id cook something simple, other times wed just open a bottle of wine and play soft music. We talked for hours about her work, her writing, how tired she was of explaining herself to other people.

I never stayed overnight. She never saw me home. I had to be the one to suggest meeting up at weekends. Sometimes she agreed; other times she disappeared for a couple of days, lost to editorial deadlines, meetings, or trips. And when she returned, it was as if nothing happened. No apologies, no lengthy explanations.

One evening, after wed spent some time together, she sat at the edge of her bed and said, Dont fall in love with me.

I didnt know what to reply. I just said I wasnt in love. We both knew that wasnt strictly true.

I wanted more. Not necessarily promises, just a place. She, on the other hand, kept repeating that our paths were different. That I was only just starting out, and shed already built her life. That she didnt want to be an anchor or for me to use her as a shortcut.

I cant give you what youre asking for, shed say.

Yet, shed invite me back, time and again.

Eventually, I realised she was offering the only thing she was willing to give: a patchwork presence, deep conversations, spontaneous meetings. I accepted it because I felt I had no right to ask for more. How could I talk about the future, when I couldnt even pay my own bills?

Every time I left her flat, Id walk several streets before catching the bus. I felt full and empty at the same time. Grateful for having spent time with her. Empty, because I knew Id end up back in my room at my parents house, in my rather unremarkable reality.

She never promised me anything. Never lied. And yet, it hurt.

I still see her. Not as often as I wish I did. Sometimes I think Im hoping shell look at me differently one day. Or that Ill grow enough to not feel so small beside her. Or maybe, Ill just get tired of settling.

But honestly lately, spending time with her makes me feel more sad than happy.

Why is that, I wonder?