Romance is dead. I am not being dramatic. I am reporting from the scene.
The scene was our hallway. Shoes still on. His mouth on my neck. An Amazon parcel under my shoulder that I am fairly sure was Sophie’s vitamin delivery. If that is not a funeral for the whole candlelit fantasy, I do not know what is. I would have brought flowers. I brought a hangover and a man whose surname I still have not asked for.
Look. I know how this is supposed to go. You get in the door. You offer water. You make it to a bed like civilised people. Someone takes their shoes off because they were raised properly. The lights dim. A playlist that is trying too hard. That version of the night exists in films and in the heads of girls who have never lived with two other women and a landlord who texts about noise at 4am.
We did not do that version.
How we even got to the door
It started as a normal enough evening, which in my life means I said I was only going for two drinks and then I was in a booth in Soho watching this man talk with his hands. He was fit in that slightly annoying way. Good coat. Better timing. He laughed at the right bits of what I said and did not mention a startup once. That alone felt like a public service.
Mia had already gone home with someone from the smoking area. Sophie had done the sensible thing and left at midnight with her Oyster card and a look that said she knew I would be a problem later. I stayed. I always stay. Staying is where the copy comes from.
We shared a taxi because I am not performing independence at 2am when the night bus smells like a wet carpet. He paid. I let him. Feminism can have the morning. The back of that cab was all knees and the kind of quiet that is not actually quiet. You know the one. The driver had talkSPORT on low. My lipstick was already on his mouth and I had not even decided if he was coming in yet.
I had decided. I just like pretending there is a vote.
The hallway does not care about your plans
Parsons Green at that hour is smug and asleep. Our building always feels like it is judging you. I dropped my keys. He picked them up. That should have been the charming bit. Instead I kissed him against the wall before the door was even properly shut, because waiting felt like a personality trait I do not have.
The hallway in our flat is not sexy. It is shoes, a radiator that clanks, a mirror I use for lipstick, and a pile of cardboard that never goes out on the right day. There was a parcel on the floor. Prime. Ridiculous. I remember the smile on the tape more clearly than I remember his opening line.
He said something like “upstairs?” and I said “in a minute” and then the minute did not arrive.
Shoes still on. That is the detail people get precious about. Like the whole thing would have been classier if we had paused for laces. I did not pause. He did not pause. My back hit the wall and the parcel slid under my shoulder when we went down a bit and I laughed because it was either laugh or admit this was a bit tragic. Tragic can still be hot. That is the whole thesis.
What it was actually like
It was fast and a bit clumsy and better than it had any right to be given the setting. His belt buckle kept catching. My dress was doing that thing dresses do when they were not designed for a floor. The radiator was too close to my ankle. Someone’s bike helmet stared at us from the hook like a chaperone.
I had one hand in his hair and the other trying not to knock over the bowl we dump keys in. Very glamorous. Very me.
He was good in the way men sometimes are when they have given up on impressing you with conversation. Focused. A bit desperate. I like desperate if it is pointed in the right direction. I told him to be quiet because Sophie’s room is not that far and I am already on thin ice with the chore chart. He bit his own lip like that would help. It did not help. It did look good.
The parcel held up surprisingly well. I will be leaving that review in my head only. Five stars for structural integrity. One star for the fact I now have to look Sophie in the eye when she opens her ashwagandha.
Was it romantic? No. Was I thinking about rose petals? Also no. I was thinking do not let the neighbours hear, do not rip this dress, and God he smells like the bar and clean laundry at the same time. That combination should be illegal. It is how people make mistakes on a Wednesday.
It was a Thursday. Even worse.
The bit after, which is always the real story
We did eventually make it off the floor. Not far. Sat against the wall like two people who had just failed a tasteful evening. My knees had that hallway carpet burn you cannot explain at brunch. He looked pleased with himself. I looked in the mirror and fixed my mouth. Priorities.
He asked if I wanted water. I said yes. He went to the kitchen in his coat like a guest who had not been shown the house. I stayed on the floor for a second longer because standing felt ambitious.
Mia’s door opened a crack. She took in the shoes, the parcel, me on the floor, and whispered “you are unwell” before shutting it again. Love her. She is not wrong.
He came back with a glass that was definitely Sophie’s favourite. I did not tell him. Some crimes are enough for one night.
We talked a bit. The usual rubbish. Where are you from. That bar was packed. I like your flat. I said thank you as if I had designed the hallway for this purpose. I had not. Although I am now considering a bench. Practical. Also sluttier than a bench should be.
He did not stay. Obviously.
People always want the sleepover. The t-shirt. The morning after eggs. Cute. That is a different article and a different man.
This one put his watch back on in the hall, which I found weirdly intimate, and asked if I wanted him to wait until my Uber of shame had theoretically arrived even though I already live here. I told him I was fine. I was. Fine is my baseline. Fine with a story is even better.
He kissed me at the door like we had done something polite. We had not. The polite version was still sitting upstairs on a made bed I never showed him. I almost found that funny enough to invite him up after all. Then I thought about Sophie’s vitamin box and the fact I could already feel a bruise starting on my shoulder and I let him go.
The stairs were right there. We just never used them. I keep coming back to that. All that architecture for nothing.
What I told myself in the bathroom
I took my shoes off at the sink. That felt like the first decent decision of the night. Makeup still on. Hair doing a crime. I looked like I had been dragged through a very specific kind of fun. I did my lipstick again anyway. Habit. Also evidence management.
There is a version of me that wants the upstairs. Sheets. A lamp. Someone taking their time. I am not allergic to it. I have had it. It is lovely when it is lovely. It is also slower to write about and easier to romanticise until it is just another nice thing that did not leave a mark.
The hallway leaves a mark. Carpet. Parcel. The sound of your own keys hitting the bowl. You cannot dress that up as destiny. You can only tell the truth and hope it photographs well in print even if it never makes the grid.
I am not ashamed. I keep waiting to be. It would make me more relatable to the girls who think wanting it badly is something you grow out of at 24. I did not grow out of it. I just got a better coat and a flatter description.
Morning, because there is always a morning
Sophie found the squashed box first. She held it up over the kettle.
“Why is my parcel warm.”
“It is not warm.”
“Chelsea.”
I made tea. I told her we never made it upstairs. She closed her eyes like she was praying for strength and also for a new housemate. Then she said, “at least you didn’t use the good towels.” Which is how I know she still loves me.
Mia wanted details before she wanted coffee. I gave her the short version. Shoes on. Wall. Cardboard. She said “iconic” in a way that was half joke and half professional respect. We live a very stupid life. It suits us.
He texted at 11. “You got home alright?” I was already home. I sent back a photo of the hallway looking innocent in daylight. Just shoes and the mirror and no evidence. “Crime scene cleaned.” He sent a laugh and a question mark. I left the question mark alone. Some things do not need a sequel on the same day.
I will probably see him again. I might even take him upstairs next time, if only to prove we can use furniture like adults. I also might not. The stairs will still be there. The parcel will be replaced. The funeral for romance can have an open bar.
Anyway. If you are waiting for the poetic ending, this is it. We never made it upstairs. It was still a full night. The bed did not get a vote. The hallway did. And the hallway, for all its ugly little honesty, did the job.
