On chemistry and the inconvenience of knowing better.

"Stay," he said. "We'll just cuddle."

Which, in fairness, is exactly the kind of sentence that has ruined perfectly intelligent women before.

He hadn’t done anything wrong—he was Australian. He also possessed a medically concerning amount of big dick energy. Unfortunately for me, "orders without looking at the menu" is one of my favorite genres of man.

“I should go. I can’t make major life decisions horizontally.”

Saying it out loud did not help. I wanted nothing more than to melt into someone else’s certainty for a while—preferably with two arms involved. I was tired in a way that sleep had nothing to do with. But my higher self was screaming, Girl, run. This is how we get bangs.

Whenever I pulled away, The Aussie seemed to reach a little further. And let me be clear, I’m not talking about sex here—we never had the pleasure. 

It was much deeper. More destructive. 

He was inviting himself into rooms I'd barely started unlocking. Not with pressure, but with disarming sincerity. Just enough to make me question whether I was being too guarded.

He wanted access to parts of me most people politely walked around. The things that scared most men made him want to get closer. For someone like me—who has never mastered the art of emotional gatekeeping—intensity is a hell of a drug.

It still is.

At the time, The Aussie and I were residing in two different countries. Distance has a way of convincing you chronology is optional—it omits all the practical parts in dating. 

You’re not distracted by pheromones or three undone buttons. No wondering if they're taller than their photos, or whether they're one of those people who clap when the plane lands.

All that matters is conversation. Which sounds romantic until you realize conversation can outrun reality. The Aussie made it especially easy. He had this way of answering the question underneath the question.

I asked about his family, and he gave me a crash course in leaving God. I asked about relationships, and suddenly I knew more about his ex than her therapist. Every conversation ended somewhere neither of us had planned.

Conveniently, I've never been one for small talk. Not because I think I'm above it. I'm perfectly happy discussing the weather if we're both standing in the rain. But asking someone what they do for work has always felt like reading the back of the book instead of opening it.

I wanted the pages. The dog-eared corners. The coffee stains. Whatever was scribbled in the margins. The Aussie didn't hesitate to hand over his notes. But in exchange, he wanted mine.

On our second date, I mentioned that I was coming out of the worst year of my life. Most people know what to do with that kind of sentence. They lower their voice a little. Then they treat you like a skittish deer they’ve spotted in the woods.

They don't chase it. They don't touch it. They let it decide whether it wants to come closer. The Aussie had different instincts—he reached into his pocket and coaxed me out with snacks.

"What happened?"

Such an ordinary question, yet it startled me. There are stories you don't share until they’ve earned the unflattering version of you. The Aussie wanted the ugly parts with equal enthusiasm. 

Well, don’t mind if I do.

I handed it to him all at once. My response was short and coded, but it included words like grief, abandonment, miscarriage, light identity theft. 

We had known each other for five days, and we'd already managed three countries and more emotional entanglement than a Korean drama. And I could not have been more on board. This man was gravitas in a linen shirt. Never once did I think, Ma’am. Take your foot off the Australian.

As fate would have it, we were headed for entirely different lives. The only thing preventing this catastrophe was the Pacific Ocean. Still, I didn’t want him any less.

“I should go. I can’t make major life decisions horizontally.”

“We don’t have to figure anything out tonight. Come here. Let me hold you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Those arms again.

He swept me up like the war just ended. All the while, I kept explaining I had work the next day. This was happening a little too fast. There was no point in taking it further when we already knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. 

He looked at me tenderly, as if his eyes were whispering, Sweet summer child. This complicated my exit considerably.

“I think you’re a bit closed off, mate.”

His thumb brushed across my bottom lip, and I nearly abandoned all reason. I felt compelled to defend myself, not because he’d hurt my feelings, but because I felt responsible for proving I wasn’t who he thought I was.

“I’m trying to do better. I don’t know how to do that yet without losing the parts of myself I just found.”

If complexity was his kink, he must have died and gone to therapy. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to collapse into him so deeply, I wouldn’t know where I ended and he began. Whether for the night or forever—however long it took to lose myself completely.

I left.

On the other side of the door, I stood there for a moment. The hallway looked the same as it had an hour earlier—when I still believed there’d be more of us.

Beige carpet. Soft lighting. One of those abstract prints hotels buy in bulk because they offend absolutely no one. Somewhere further down the hall, a door clicked open. A woman laughed. The ice machine hummed in the most understated way. 

I convinced my feet to start moving without me—and suddenly, I was walking away. One cowboy boot in front of the other.

By the time I got to my car, the hotel looked small. I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, plugged my phone into the charger, and watched the screen light up.

His name was still there. A week ago, my phone didn't know he existed. Now our messages stretched for pages. Conversations told in emojis. Photos from Mexico. A link to dinner reservations. 

Somewhere between strangers and goodbye, we'd built a paper trail that belonged to people who survived a mortgage together. I scrolled back to the beginning, which took less time than I expected. Then, I deleted the entire chat and drove home.

In the moment, it didn't feel like a turning point. I’d seen this before: two people blurring at the edges, mistaking intensity for intimacy.

For the first time, maybe ever, I could see the fantasy unfolding—and understood it could ruin me.

This isn’t revolutionary for people who trust themselves, or call their parents by their first names. I did not grow up that way. I grew up with a rice cooker that did all the emotional labor for the household.

If you'd met me a year earlier, I would have stayed. I knew how to leave people. I just didn't know how to leave the future I'd built around them. One more dinner. One more flight. One more version of the story where it somehow worked out.

To understand why leaving mattered so much, we have to go back. The man before The Aussie didn't arrive with super-yacht confidence or coiffed hair that could alter brain chemistry.

He was quiet—in the most understated way.

If you’re still here, subscribe for the next part. I’ll start the tea and meet you there.