Dear London (an unlove letter)

Unfortunately this is a falling out of love letter and not the opposite of its kind. Do people ever actually write those? I suppose, in a mad dash to leave, on a notepad meant for shopping lists, or smudged on a napkin with the skid-marks to show the at breaking neck speed at which they raced out of your life. More obviously through text messages, in as little words as: ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ ‘There’s somebody else.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

I think my disenchantment upon my last visit to London was a little bit of that last one. But don’t go thinking it’s because these big cities are becoming scary. I, like the rest of my country, will not let fear win. But I have lost my flow with London. My steps feel haphazard. In the months or, really, year — god, it’s been that long — that separate my time as a Londoner, I have lost the knack to cross the road, to hold my breath when commuters are rude, to find a love in the rush of a bustling city.

Everything that I loved before is still there and I still feel it, completely and utterly, sometimes heavily in my weaker moments. But, in what seems to be a pattern of my life, the city isn’t ready for it, for me to come back. And maybe I’m not ready either. Perhaps there is another love in my life, for my home city and for the family that need my undivided support right now. Because it’s been hit, over and over, on quaking, shaky knees and I am needed here. I am needed here and London will have to wait. When we’re both a tad more ready.

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