Maybe Love Was a Place All Along

What if the love of your life isn’t a person, but a city that says yes to all of you?

Love, to me,
smells like the underground at 6pm
an overpriced drink in my hands
and the sacred silence of a park at 8 in the morning.

Love is this city
where I can be everything —
and no one thinks it’s too much.

Where strange is style,
different is the norm,
and the wildest dreams get permanent addresses.

London loves me as I am.
No subtitles needed.
No explanations required.
No softening of my chaos.

Here, I am whole.
I’m a breeze and a storm.
Walking with Jazz in the streets
and stillness by the canal.
I’m a woman on fire,
dancing between Victorian bricks and neon signs.
I’m newborn ideas and ancient stories holding hands.

Because London welcomes me.
But it also pokes me,
challenges me,
demands from me.

There’s no space for lukewarm in this city.
Either you leap
or time runs you over.

Here, grandeur isn’t just scenery,
it’s tempo.
It’s invitation.
It’s a dare.

And I say yes.
Because this city wants me alive,
wants me pulsing,
wants me dreaming, writing, creating —
reinventing myself at every corner.

Love, to me,
looks like this city.
It hugs me without smothering.
It excites me without rushing.
I can dictate the rhythm.
It gives me everything
and still makes me want more.

Love is this:
a place where I feel at home
even when I know no one.
A place that challenges me to grow
without making me feel small —
maybe only the good kind of small,
like when you find comfort in your (big) lover’s arms,
that seem to protect you from all the harm in the world.
Or when you look up to the night sky
and remember how little your worries are
in the face of the infinite.

This kind of love 
That looks me in the eye and says,
“Come. All in.”
A place where I can walk alone
and still feel accompanied.
A place that leaves me exhausted
but electric —
takes my breath away
and then gives it back fuller.

Home is where the Shard is.
A walk by the Thames on a sunny day,
pausing to admire Tower Bridge
like it’s the first time,
every time.

Love, to me,
is knowing I can be
utterly free
and still
deeply rooted.

And maybe —
just maybe —
the love of my life
was never meant to be a person.

Maybe all the people I’ve loved
and will love —
the ones who stayed for a season,
the ones who left too soon,
the ones who cracked me open —
maybe they were all pieces of a puzzle
leading me here.

To this.
To London.

To the only place
that never made me feel too loud,
too much,
too intense,
too everything.

Maybe the one I was always waiting for
was this city
pulling me in with her ancient arms
and whispering through the wind:
“you’re home.”

Maybe that was the voice
I was always hearing
beneath all the noise.
And maybe this
was where I needed to land
to finally stop running.

And honestly,
it does feel crazy to me —
because this is not my land by birth.
So how can I just claim it mine?

But something I’ve been learning is:
for so many things,
we keep waiting for someone to give us permission.
But it can only be granted by us.
So, this place is mine, too.

Maybe this
was the love story
I was always meant to write.

And if one day
I ever love a man
the way I love this city —
then I’ll know:

It’s real.
It’s him.
It’s home.
It’s love.