Taylor Swift has a song for every little feeling in this world, and right now I was particularly residing in my Blank Space feeling, just thinking:
"Got a long list of ex-lovers
They'll tell you I'm insane
But I've got a blank space, baby
And I'll write your name."
It wasn't that I actually had a literal "long list of ex-lovers." My list was short, painful, and messy. The "ex-lovers" were the ghosts of bad first dates, the week-long text flings, the guys who had vanished mid-conversation.
They were the evidence of my past emotional instability—the wreckage left behind by Brian, the Hunter, who was constantly chasing the idea of love so desperately that he choked the life out of any fledgling connection. They probably would call me insane, or at least wildly intense.
But Julian was the Blank Space.
He was the empty score sheet that allowed for a new composition, free from the chaotic, over-produced beats of my former life. The thought of writing his name felt terrifyingly permanent, a tattoo in ink rather than a temporary marker.
What if I got it wrong? What if the beautiful, easy melody we'd started became another discordant track, another song I had to delete?
The four days between the first coffee date and our agreed-upon second one felt like a small eternity governed by a merciless clock.
My friends, my "vibrant, chaotic crew," were not helping. I brought Julian up during our standing Tuesday night trivia session at The Drowned God pub, and the skepticism was palpable.
"So, the clay guy," my friend Marcus said, sipping his dark beer, his eyes narrowed in forensic judgment. "What's his deal? What's the red flag? Is he too obsessed with enamel? Does he use 'y'all' ironically?"
"He's an archivist," I defended, feeling unreasonably hot under the collar. "And his red flag is that he smells like cinnamon and quietly enjoys being an adult."
Clara, who was convinced that true love could only be found through shared near-death experiences, snorted delicately into her martini glass. "An archivist? Brian, that sounds like a job description, not a personality. Does he even have trauma? You need a good, shared trauma to bond."
"His trauma," I deadpanned, "is that he's seen too many poorly stored documents. Look, it was easy. It was just… good. He sees me. He doesn't want anything from me yet, which means he actually wants me."
Liam, the most cynical of the group, pushed his empty bowl of chips towards me. "I'm going to use your words against you, Brian. 'He doesn't want anything from me yet.' That's the problem. You are so used to the high-pressure sales pitch—the guy who wants to move in after three dates—that you don't recognize healthy, slow-burn interest. You're addicted to the urgency."
His words hit me like a perfectly timed bass drop. He was right. I was a maximalist in love, addicted to the volume being cranked up to ten immediately. Julian was a quiet sonata, and I was so accustomed to the stadium rock of my past that I kept waiting for the distortion pedal to kick in.
I was interviewing Julian, but I was also interviewing myself—checking to see if I was actually capable of enjoying something gentle.
The second date was Saturday night. Julian had suggested takeout and a movie at his place, an offer that immediately triggered a cascade of panic.
The apps had ruined the sanctity of the apartment invite. An apartment invite was always weighted—it was the implied contract of intention. It said, This is where I live, and I want you to see it, and I want something specific to happen here.
Julian's text, however, was light: "I'll make tea and we can order terrible Chinese food and watch Con Air. Unless you prefer The Rock. Your choice."
It felt less like an invitation to a hotel room and more like an invitation to his actual, lived-in home.
I arrived precisely at 7:30 p.m., wearing a decent sweater and carrying a bottle of nice red wine, a peace offering to the Gods of Emotional Risk.
Julian's apartment was precisely what I should have expected: small, tidy, and saturated with the feeling of history. The walls were lined with bookshelves, stacked two deep in places, and the air smelled faintly of cedar and, yes, cinnamon. His furniture was old, inherited, and deeply comfortable. It was a space designed for reading and quiet contemplation, not for hosting parties or dramatic confrontations.
"Welcome to the archives," Julian said, taking the wine and giving me a quick, warm side-hug that felt familiar, like the kind of greeting you'd give a trusted colleague.
We quickly settled into an easy domesticity that scared me more than a passionate kiss ever could. We picked through menus, arguing amicably over the superiority of vegetable fried rice versus lo mein. While waiting for the food, we migrated to the living room. Julian had a small, battered record player, and he put on some low-key classic jazz—a sound I barely recognized over the pounding synth beats of my internal monologue.
"This is nice," I managed, sinking into the sofa, trying not to notice that his favorite reading blanket was folded meticulously on the armrest.
"It's just… living," Julian replied simply, sitting down beside me.
Then, the inevitable happened: the conversation lulled.
In my past dating life, silence was the enemy.
Silence meant the interview had failed, the charisma had run out, and it was time to either suggest moving things to the bedroom or making an awkward exit. Silence was the space where the judgment settled in.
Here, however, the silence was different. It was filled by the low thrum of the jazz record and the muffled sounds of the city outside. It was a comfortable silence, a shared hammock of peace. Julian wasn't staring at me; he was just sitting, relaxed, scrolling through a book on his phone, occasionally taking a sip of his tea. He wasn't demanding that I fill the air with witty anecdotes or proof of my worthiness.
The old Brian felt the desperate urge to shatter it. Say something brilliant. Talk about your childhood trauma. Ask him about his credit score. Anything!
But I remembered the vow: Pricy. Precision. Just live.
I looked around Julian's small, quiet apartment. He wasn't pretending to be anything he wasn't. There were no masks here, only worn books and the scent of cinnamon. This was the "home" I'd wanted, not because it was grand, but because it was honest.
I put my head back against the cushion and closed my eyes. And for the first time in what felt like a decade, I didn't force a conversation. I didn't perform. I just allowed the soft, smooth jazz to wash over me.
Julian gently set his phone down, sensing the shift. He didn't speak. Instead, I felt his weight shift, and then the warmth of his hand, resting lightly on the sofa cushion next to mine. It wasn't a grab; it was an offering.
I opened my eyes and turned my head. He was looking at me now, not with the intensity of someone assessing a potential partner, but with the curiosity of someone studying a rare, beautiful document.
"You look tired," he observed, his voice barely a whisper.
I could have said, "I'm just stressed about work." I could have said, "I'm fine." Instead, I took a risk, offering a raw piece of the truth.
"I am," I admitted. "I think I'm just tired of having to work so hard to be liked. It's exhausting to always be auditioning."
Julian nodded slowly, his expression full of unexpected empathy. He didn't offer a platitude. He didn't try to fix me. He just held my gaze and said, very quietly, "You don't have to do that here, Brian."
And that was it. That simple, profound statement cut through all the noise, all the cynical pop anthems, and all the desperate searching. It was the moment the music truly changed keys. The pressure released, and I felt a wave of dizzying relief.
The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of our terrible Chinese takeout. The spell was broken, but the foundation had been set.
When we started to sort through the containers of dumplings and rice, bumping elbows in the small kitchen, I realized I hadn't written a long list of ex-lovers on this clean slate. I had simply written one word: Safe.
That night, we watched Con Air, and it was gloriously, hilariously awful. We were two guys, sitting close on a comfortable sofa, occasionally leaning in to whisper a bad line from the movie, sharing the kind of easy, comfortable companionship that felt less like a date and more like the first night of the rest of my life.
I hadn't found love by trying to write Julian's name into my story. I had found it when Julian gave me permission to stop writing altogether, and just be Brian.