I grew up in Los Angeles a desperate romantic with my head permanently inclined towards the sky and a copy of “Romeo and Julieta” that he used to reread. I devoured that book too young and believed in him too fervently. The twin souls were not just an idea, they were a promise. He believed in the love that challenged reason and time, in looks in the rooms that changed the course of his life, in poetry recorded in each beat.
But at 21, the fairy tale had begun to break. A traumatic experience with a man in which he trusted my sense of security and desire. For three years, I retired completely. I told people that I was “focusing on myself”, which was true in part, but it was also a shield. I was afraid, fear of being, of being desired, of wanting back. I felt like a closed door that I didn't even remember how to open.
Even so, it doesn't matter how deeply I buried it, I couldn't stop yearning for the same thing I feared: love. The real guy. The type of sweep and that consume souls that had always dreamed. Of the guy who felt like returning home.
Then I moved to a house of actors in the happy ones, a beautiful type of chaos that could only produce it. Four roommates, each chasing a different dream, all messy, creative and trying to do something of ourselves. One of them had just arrived from Australia. I still remember the first time I saw it: high skin and bathed in the sun, dark golden curls, movie star smile and a voice that caused everything to sound like a love song. Even “passing almond milk” felt flirtatious coming from him.
I had that magnetic energy, of the guy that makes you turn your head in a room full of people without even knowing why. He was already known at home, but here he was starting from scratch. That vulnerability, mixed with its charm, made it impossible not to realize. Not only did I realize. They attracted me as a tide to the moon.
We begin to spend time together, at first, but then constantly. Walks through Griffith Park, conversations that started with coffee and lasted until 2 in the morning in the kitchen. Walk by Silver Lake, where our hands brushed a little too long. He listened carefully. He remembered small details that I said passed. He looked at me as if it were a story that wanted to read slowly.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I began to feel it: those soft and flutter butterflies that made it difficult to breathe around them. The type of feeling that I thought I had lost forever. I would catch looking at him, not even trying to hide him. My heart would make this little jump when he laughed at my jokes or looked at me too much. I started asking myself: Is this? Could he be the right one?
I couldn't even see other boys. I had deformed my radar. Each song reminded me of him. My mind was advanced, imagining a future that still did not exist: a mounting of quiet mornings, long walks, maybe even returning to Australia with him. He was completely deranged and yet he felt undenically real.
One night, we were sitting on the couch after everyone else went to bed. A movie touched gently in the background, something that none of us were really watching. There was a long silence, not uncomfortable, just full, and then turned to me, his eyes looked for in mine.
“I really like,” he said, just above a whisper.
I felt my heart seized. I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
He leaned slowly, giving me time to find him halfway.
But I couldn't. I froze.
Just before our lips ran into, I retired softly and looked the other way.
“Sorry,” I said, barely audible.
He paused for a second, then gave me a softer smile. “It's fine,” he said without losing the rhythm. “There is no pressure, okay? We will pretend that did not happen.”
And so, we move on. Without discomfort. No pressure. He handled it with such grace that, in any case, I liked it more. He felt like a confirmation that he really saw me, not only as someone to conquer, but with someone with whom it is worth being a patient.
But a few days later, the brightness began to fade.
We were sitting on the rear steps one afternoon when he mentioned, almost passed, “there is something that I should probably tell you. I have a girlfriend.”
I blinked. “Wait … what?”
“She lives in Germany,” he said, the quiet voice. “Four years have passed. We have been long distance for a while. It is on the rocks, but … we are still technically together.”
Technically.
I felt that the background fell from my chest. My mind hastened to connect points, reorganizing every sweet moment under this new light.
I tried to process it, but I wasn't angry, not yet. Only stunned. Numb. I nodded, I said something like: “Thank you for telling me” and excused myself to my room.
But then the nights began to change.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. But after that conversation, the energy in the house changed. Almost every night, I listened to new voices. Laughter. Sometimes the flirtatious whispers in the hall. One night, I spent a girl in the kitchen making roasted at 1 in the morning in her hood. She smiled politely. I didn't ask questions.
It became a pattern. A different girl, almost every night. I would find them with line or tinder. Beautiful and charismatic women, most of them aspiring actors or models. I never heard it boast of that. It was not striking. But it was unmistakable: I was spiral in something.
And I couldn't stop looking.
Part of me was devastated, although I had no claim for him. He had been imagining a future. I began to believe that he was my soulmate. But this was not what twin souls did. Twin souls did not treat people as rotating doors.
Finally, during one of our rare calm nights alone, I mentioned it.
“Hey,” I said gently. “Are you OK?”
He paused, looking at his hands. Then, with surprising openness, he admitted: “I think I have a problem.”
He explained that sex was like a compulsion for him. That had been using it to deal with anxiety, loneliness, the chaos of this city. That made him feel better, for a moment. But never for a long time. He looked at me, raw eyes.
“I'm trying to handle it,” he said. “But it's difficult.”
I sat next to him, silently. Do not judge. Just listening.
It wasn't cruel. Only deeply lost. One of the many people in this city pursues something they could not name. I wanted to be loved, like me. I just didn't know how to be safe with that.
I felt relieved that we would not have crossed that line. That I had maintained a part of myself intact. But it also marked something final. The moment I stopped seriously considering a man in Los Angeles.
I still love this city. I still give the same walks. It still remains in the cafes, waiting for something soft and sincere to cut the noise. But I no longer fall in love with fantasies, especially not the type wrapped in accents and charisma.
The lovely Australian man addicted to sex? It is still one of my closest friends. We never kissed. We never talk much about that.
To experience romance is undoubtedly one of the finest things in life, but it is not always the most satisfactory. The twin souls appear in many forms, and sometimes the most real love you will experience is with a dog or a family member or a Platonic friend and that is fine. All love is a great love.
The author is an actor and writer who lives in Los Angeles. She grew up in the city, still believes in love (sometimes) and takes too many walks by Silver Lake and happy.
Los Angeles Affairs Chronices The search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to listen to their real history. We pay $ 400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find presentation guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
