Loveless

by Alice Oseman

  I felt myself go a bit red. ‘Uh, no.’

  ‘Good. I can’t imagine you kissing.’ She narrowed her eyes and looked off into the distance. ‘It’d be like … I dunno. Like seeing my siblings kiss.’

  ‘Well, we’re probably going to end up doing it at some point,’ I said. Definitely. We definitely were.

  Pip looked at me again. I couldn’t read her. Was she annoyed? Did she just find it weird?

  ‘You’ve never really been interested in anyone before,’ she said. ‘I mean, the Tommy thing … that was all … you just made up that crush. By accident.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed.

  ‘But you … you just like Jason now?’

  I blinked at her. ‘What? Don’t you believe me?’

  She leant forward a little, then back again. ‘I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She didn’t want to say it. She knew it’d be disrespectful to say it, to assume anything about my sexuality, but we were both thinking it.

  We were both thinking that I probably just didn’t like men.

  I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t disagree.

  I wanted to tell Pip that I didn’t feel sure about anything, and I felt so weird all the time, to the point that I hated myself, being a kid who knew all about sexuality from the internet but couldn’t even vaguely work out what I was, couldn’t even come up with a ballpark estimate, when everyone else seemed to find it so, so easy. Or if they didn’t find it easy, they got through the hard bit at school, and by the time they were my age, they were already kissing and having sex and falling in love as much as they wanted.

  All I could manage to say was: ‘I don’t really know how I feel.’

  Pip could tell I wasn’t saying everything that was in my head. She could always tell.

  She grabbed my hand and held it.

  ‘That’s OK, my guy,’ she said. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m … shit at explaining it. It sounds fake.’

  ‘I’m here to talk whenever you want, man.’

  ‘OK.’

  She pulled me into a side hug, my face pressing against her collar. ‘Date Jason for a bit if you want. Just … don’t hurt him, OK? He acts all calm and collected, but he’s really sensitive after all that shit with Aimee.’

  ‘I know. I won’t.’ I lifted my head. ‘You’re really OK with it?’

  Her smile was forced and pained, and it nearly broke my heart.

  ‘Of course. I love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  I decided to leave after that. Pip kept getting dragged into conversations with people I didn’t know, and I didn’t have any energy left to talk to new people. Jess was busy mingling, and Sunil was nowhere to be seen.

  I checked my phone. It was only twenty past ten. I wondered whether Jason was OK.

  He was probably still sitting in his room, all alone, wondering whether I’d really had a headache or I just didn’t like him.

  I didn’t want to think about love any more.

  As I walked out of the restaurant and down the narrow stairway, I heard a pair of hushed voices at the bottom. I stopped, realising that one of the voices belonged to Sunil.

  ‘I’m the president now,’ he was saying, ‘and if that pisses you off so much, you don’t have to come to the society events any more.’

  ‘What, now you’re trying to kick me out?’ said the second voice. ‘Classic. I shouldn’t be surprised by this point.’

  ‘And now you’re trying to pick a fight again.’ Sunil let out a long sigh. ‘Don’t you ever get tired, Lloyd? Because I do.’

  ‘It’s my right to voice my concerns about the society. You’ve changed all the events we do and now you’re letting in way too many people!’

  ‘Letting in too many – what planet are you on?’

  ‘I saw the fucking flyers you were handing out at the Freshers’ Fair! Asexual and bigender and whatever. You’re just gonna let in anyone who thinks they’re some made-up internet identity?’

  There was a short silence, and then Sunil spoke again, his voice hardened.

  ‘You know what, Lloyd? Yes. Yes, I am. Because Pride Soc is inclusive, and open, and loving, and not run by you any more. And because there are still sad little cis gays like you who seem to take other queers’ mere existence as a threat to your civil rights, even freshers who are showing up here for the first time – some of them likely never having been to a queer event in their whole lives – just trying to find somewhere they can relax and be themselves. And I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Lloyd, because I know you don’t recognise any pride flag that isn’t the fucking rainbow, but I actually happen to be one of those made-up internet identities. And guess what? I’m the president. So get the fuck out of my formal.’

  I heard the sound of footsteps moving away and the swing of the door opening and closing.

  I waited a moment, but there was no way to pretend I hadn’t heard that conversation, so I descended the steps. Sunil looked up as I approached. He was leaning against the wall, fingers tightly clenching his upper arms.

  ‘Oh, Georgia,’ he said, forcing a smile, but I must have looked guilty because he immediately said, ‘Ah. You heard some of that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said as I reached the bottom step. ‘Are you OK? Do you …’ I struggled to think of a way I could help. ‘Do you want a drink or something?’

  Sunil chuckled. ‘You’re sweet. I’m OK.’

  ‘He … sounded like a … disgusting person.’

  ‘Yes. He very much is. Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you can’t be a bigot.’

  ‘I think you pretty much annihilated him, though.’

  He laughed again. ‘Thanks.’ He unfolded his arms. ‘You heading home?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s been really nice.’

  ‘Good. Great. You’re welcome to come along any time.’

  ‘Thank you. And … thanks for what you said to Pip about … you know, why I was here.’

  He shrugged. ‘No biggie.’

  ‘You don’t have to be in our play.’

  ‘Oh, no, I am definitely being in your play.’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘You … are?’

  ‘Definitely. I’ve really needed to do something like this – something fun. So, I’m in.’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘If you’ll have me.’

  ‘Yeah! Yeah, we sort of need five members or the society gets scrapped.’

  ‘Well, there we have it, then. Message me the details?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely.’

  There was a pause.

  I could have left. It would have made sense for me to head home.

  But instead I found myself talking.

  ‘I was sort of on a date today,’ I said. ‘When you found me.’

  Sunil raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh really?’

  ‘But it … didn’t go very well.’

  ‘Oh. Why? Were they awful?’

  ‘No, it was … the guy is really lovely. It’s me that’s the problem. I’m weird.’

  Sunil paused. ‘And why are you weird?’

  ‘I just …’ I laughed nervously. ‘I don’t think I can ever feel anything.’

  ‘Maybe he’s the wrong person for you.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s wonderful. But I never feel anything for anyone.’

  There was another long pause.

  I didn’t even know how to begin to explain it properly. It felt like something I’d made up in my head. A dream I couldn’t quite remember properly.

  And a word.

  A word that Lloyd had spoken with such malice, but Sunil had defended.

  A word that had sparked something in my brain.

  I’d finally made the connection.

  ‘Uh …’ I was grateful I was a little tipsy. I pointed at his pin – the one with black, grey, white, and purple stripes. ‘Is that … the flag for, um … being asexual?’

  Sunil’s eyes widened. For the briefe
st moment, he seemed genuinely shocked that I was not certain what his pin meant.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Asexuality. Do you know what that is?’

  Now, I had definitely heard of asexuality. I’d seen a few people talking about it online, and many people with it in their Twitter or Tumblr bios. Sometimes I even came across a fanfic with an asexual character. But I’d hardly ever heard people use the word in real life, or even on TV or in movies. I figured it was something to do with not liking sex. But I didn’t know for sure.

  ‘Erm … not really,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard of it.’ I immediately felt embarrassed by this admission. ‘You really don’t have to spend time explaining it to me, I can just – I could just go and look it up …’

  He smiled again. ‘It’s OK. I’d like to explain it. The internet can be a bit confusing.’

  I shut my mouth.

  ‘Asexuality means I’m not sexually attracted to any gender.’

  ‘So …’ I thought about this. ‘That means … you don’t want to have sex with anyone?’

  He chuckled. ‘Not necessarily. Some asexual people feel that way. But some don’t.’

  Now I was just confused. Sunil could tell.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, and it genuinely did make me feel like it was OK that I didn’t understand. ‘Asexuality means I’m not sexually attracted to any gender. So I don’t look at men, or women, or anyone, and think, wow, I want to do sexy stuff with them.’

  This made me snort. ‘Does anyone actually think stuff like that?’

  Sunil smiled, but it was a sad smile. ‘Maybe not in those exact words, but yes, most people think stuff like that.’

  This shook me. ‘Oh.’

  ‘So, I just don’t feel those feelings. Even if they’re someone I’m dating. Even if they’re a model or a celebrity. Even if, on a basic, objective level, I can tell that they’re conventionally attractive. I just don’t feel those feelings of attraction.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again.

  There was a pause. Sunil looked at me, contemplating what to say next.

  ‘Some asexuals still enjoy having sex, for a whole variety of reasons,’ he continued. ‘I think that’s why a lot of people find it confusing. But some asexuals don’t like sex at all, and some are just neutral about it. Some asexuals still feel romantic attraction to people – wanting to be in relationships, or even kiss people, for example. But others don’t want romantic relationships at all. It’s a big, big spectrum with a whole range of different feelings and experiences. And there’s really no way to tell how one specific person feels, even if they openly describe themselves as asexual.’

  ‘So …’ I knew it was a little invasive to ask, but I just had to. ‘Do you still want relationships?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I identify as gay as well. Gay asexual.’

  ‘As … as well?’

  ‘The technical term is homoromantic. I still want to be in relationships with guys and masculine folks. But I feel very indifferent about sex, because I have never looked at men or any gender and felt sexual attraction to them. Men don’t turn me on. Nobody does.’

  ‘So romantic attraction is different from sexual attraction?’

  ‘For some people they feel like different things, yes,’ said Sunil. ‘So some people find it useful to define those two aspects of their attraction differently.’

  ‘Oh.’ I didn’t know how I felt about that. What I felt was so whole – it didn’t feel like two different things.

  ‘Jess – she’s aromantic, meaning she doesn’t feel romantic attraction for anyone. She’s also bisexual. She won’t mind me telling you that. She finds a lot of people physically attractive, but she just doesn’t fall in love with them.’

  Isn’t that sad? was what I wanted to ask. How is she OK with that? How would I be OK with that?

  ‘She’s happy,’ said Sunil, like he’d read my mind. ‘It took her some time to feel happy with herself, but … I mean, you met her. She’s happy with who she is. Maybe it’s not the heteronormative dream that she grew up wishing for, but … knowing who you are and loving yourself is so much better than that, I think.’

  ‘This is … a lot,’ I said, my voice quiet and a little croaky.

  Sunil nodded again. ‘I know.’

  ‘A lot a lot.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why do things have to be so complicated?’

  ‘Ah, the eternally wise words of Avril Lavigne.’

  I didn’t know what to say after that. I just stood there, processing.

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Sunil after a few moments. He looked down, as if remembering an old joke. ‘So few people know what asexuality or aromanticism are. Sometimes I think I’m so wrapped up with Pride Soc that I forget there are people who’ve just … never even heard these words. Or have any idea that this is a real thing.’

  ‘I-I’m sorry,’ I said instantly. Had I offended him?

  ‘Oh my God, you have nothing to be sorry about. It’s not in films. It’s hardly ever in TV shows, and when it is, it’s some tiny subplot that most people ignore. When it’s talked about in the media, it gets trolled to hell and back. Even some queer people out there hate the very concept of being aro or ace because they think it’s unnatural or just fake – I mean, you heard Lloyd.’ Sunil smiled sadly at me. ‘I’m glad you were curious. It’s always good to be curious.’

  I was curious now, that’s for sure.

  And I was also terrified.

  I mean, that wasn’t me. Asexual. Aromantic.

  I still wanted to have sex with someone, eventually. Once I found someone I actually liked. Just because I’d never liked anyone didn’t mean I never would … did it?

  And I wanted to fall in love. I really, really did.

  I definitely would someday.

  So that couldn’t be me.

  I didn’t want that to be me.

  Fuck. I didn’t know.

  I shook my head a little, trying to dispel the hurricane of confusion that was threatening to form inside my brain.

  ‘I should … go home,’ I stammered, feeling suddenly like I was being a huge bother to Sunil. He probably just wanted to have a nice evening, but here I was, asking for a sexuality lesson. ‘I mean – back to college. Sorry – um, thank you for explaining about … all of that.’

  Sunil gazed at me for a long moment.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I really am glad you came along, Georgia.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I mumbled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Pride Soc is here for you,’ he said. ‘OK? Nobody was ever there for me, until … until I met Jess. And if I hadn’t met her …’ He trailed off, something crossing his expression that I couldn’t read. He replaced it with a familiar calm smile. ‘I just need you to know that people are here for you.’

  ‘OK,’ I said hoarsely.

  And then I was gone.

  I guess it’s fair to say a lot was spiralling in my brain on that walk home.

  I was going to hurt Jason, or Jason and I were going to die together wearing wedding rings. Pip was thriving – maybe she didn’t need me any more. Why couldn’t I feel anything for anyone? Was I what Sunil and Jess were? Those super long words that most people hadn’t even heard of?

  Why couldn’t I fall in love with anyone?

  I passed the shops and cafés, the history department and Hatfield College, drunk students and locals stumbling around, and the cathedral, lit up gently in the dark, and that made me stop and think about how I had walked this path with Jason only a few hours earlier, and we had been laughing, and I had almost been able to imagine that I was someone entirely different.

  When I got back to my room, the people upstairs were having sex again. Rhythmic thumping against the wall. I hated it, but then I felt bad, because maybe it was two people in love.

  In the end, that was the problem with romance. It was so easy to romanticise romance because it was everywhere. It was in music and on TV and in filtered Instagram photos. It was in the air, crisp and alive
with fresh possibility. It was in falling leaves, crumbling wooden doorways, scuffed cobblestones and fields of dandelions. It was in the touch of hands, scrawled letters, crumpled sheets and the golden hour. A soft yawn, early morning laughter, shoes lined up together by the door. Eyes across a dance floor.

  I could see it all, all the time, all around, but when I got closer, I found that nothing was there.

  A mirage.

  ‘GEORGIA,’ a voice said – or screeched, rather – as I entered the Shakespeare Soc rehearsal several days later.

  It was our first rehearsal in a real rehearsal room. We were inside one of the many large, old buildings by Durham Cathedral that contained nothing but classrooms, which were available to rent out as society activity spaces. I imagined this building was what most private schools felt like – wooden and unnecessarily large.

  The screech in question was one I was coming to know well.

  Rooney appeared out of a classroom doorway wearing a burgundy boiler suit, which looked immensely fashionable on her, but if I’d worn it, would have made me look like a car-wash employee.

  She grabbed both my arms and started leading me into the room. Inside was mostly empty apart from one table set up at the far end, upon which Pip and Jason were sitting. Jason appeared to be doing some of his course reading, while Pip looked up and stared at Rooney with nothing less than disdain.

  ‘I’m dying, Georgia,’ said Rooney. ‘Literally. I’m going to explode.’

  ‘Please calm down.’

  ‘No, I am. I was up until six a.m. this morning planning the rest of the show.’

  ‘I know. We live together.’

  Since I had informed Rooney that Sunil was on board, she’d gone a little bit overboard on the play preparation – staying up late to plan, scheduling weekly rehearsals for the rest of the year, and bombarding all of us in our new group chat that Pip had named ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dab’. Rooney argued with Pip about the group chat name in the group chat for several hours.

  ‘We have to get the first couple of scenes ready before the Bailey Ball,’ Rooney continued. ‘That’ll keep us on target.’

  ‘That’s only a few weeks away.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The Bailey Ball – the upcoming ball at St John’s in early December – was completely irrelevant to our society, but Rooney had decided to use it as a target anyway. Probably just to scare us into attending the rehearsals.