I never fully understood the meaning of what Rihanna sang in "Fly" when she said:
"I came to win, to fight
To conquer, to thrive
I came to win (J.R.), to survive
To prosper, to rise
To fly
To fly"
Before Julian, I had always thought of those words as a motivational anthem for career moves, for getting over a terrible ex, or for battling an actual societal injustice. I interpreted it through the lens of survival. Fight the disappointment. Conquer the loneliness. Survive the awful dating landscape.
But with Julian now, I finally understood that the song wasn't about the battle itself; it was about the thrive. It was about the space you get into after the struggle, where you realize you are inherently worthy of flight. It wasn't Julian who made me fly, but Julian who provided the quiet, solid ground that finally allowed me to launch myself without fear of crashing.
The ease of our connection became the new baseline for my life, and the absence of the "hunt" was startling. I realized how much mental space I had unconsciously dedicated to searching, strategizing, and recovering from dating burnout. It was like suddenly finding a vast, empty room in my own apartment—a room I could use for painting, or reading, or just sitting in silence.
My vibrant, chaotic crew had mostly backed off their interrogations after I simply refused to manufacture drama. Marcus still asked if Julian had secretly replaced his archival gloves with novelty oven mitts, and Clara still mused about whether Julian had any deep-seated fears involving old manuscripts, but their skepticism had softened into cautious curiosity. They were beginning to see the change in me: I was calmer, less frenetic. I wasn't constantly refreshing an app or waiting for a text that never came. I was just there.
Julian and I had settled into a comfortable routine of seeing each other twice a week. It wasn't a schedule; it was a natural rhythm. Sometimes we'd see a terrible B-movie, sometimes we'd try a new tea shop, and sometimes we'd just sit and listen to that same classic jazz record at his place, each lost in our own thoughts, yet completely together. There was no pressure to fill the silences, and no expectation to escalate the physical intimacy beyond the occasional warm hug or a hand resting on my knee.
It was this profound lack of pressure that both anchored and terrified me. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop—the moment he would reveal some fatal flaw, or the moment I would get so comfortable that I'd sabotage it all. I was waiting for the high-drama chorus I was so used to.
The next stage of our evolution came on a windy Saturday morning when Julian proposed a third date that was deeply personal: he invited me to the archives where he worked.
"It's not open to the public on weekends, obviously," he explained over the phone, his voice a low, excited murmur. "But I have access. I want to show you the stuff I'm working on. It's nerdy, but it's me."
This was a major milestone. The apartment was domestic; the archives were his calling. He wasn't just showing me his home; he was showing me the inner workings of his soul—the history, the forgotten narratives, the quiet passion that defined him. This wasn't an audition; this was a guided, intimate tour of his whole world.
I arrived at the sprawling, solemn museum building downtown, feeling a nervous thrill. Julian met me at a discrete side entrance, beaming. He was wearing jeans, a dark jacket, and his same wire-rimmed glasses, looking entirely professional and completely adorable.
He led me through a maze of quiet hallways and elevators until we reached the sub-level—the archival storage facility. It was a cavernous space, chilly and dry, designed to prevent deterioration. The air was sterile, smelling faintly of paper, cardboard, and cold metal. It was a silent, subterranean universe of history.
"Welcome to the vault," Julian whispered, the sound immediately absorbed by the acoustic tiles. "Everything in here has a story, but most of them are incomplete."
He led me to his workspace: a large, pristine wooden table under bright, fluorescent lights. On the table were scattered several leather-bound journals, some brittle letters, and various tools.
"This is the latest acquisition," he explained, pointing to a stack of pale, elegant envelopes tied with a faded blue ribbon. "It's the correspondence between a state Senator and his aide from the 1950s. We're trying to prove a relationship—they left just enough subtle evidence, but nothing explicit. My job is to find the ghosts between the lines."
As he spoke, he was animated. His hands moved with reverence over the fragile paper, and his eyes, usually calm and thoughtful, were sparking with intellectual fire. He talked about the paper quality, the subtle shift in handwriting when they discussed personal matters, the careful language they used to cloak their genuine feelings in the public record.
I realized then that this was why Julian loved the archives: he wasn't just preserving documents; he was searching for the human stories that society tried to erase, the queer histories that were deliberately left incomplete. He was finding the silence and making it resonate.
"Look at this," Julian said, carefully unfolding a brittle piece of stationery. "The Senator is writing about a political trip, but then this tiny postscript. Read the last line."
I leaned in. The handwriting was florid but precise: P.S. I brought your coat back, but I kept the smell.
Julian looked up at me, his eyes full of tenderness and understanding. "He didn't say, 'I love you.' He didn't even say, 'I miss you.' He just admitted to holding onto a scent. It's the most intimate thing in the entire collection. It's the small, real, human truth."
Suddenly, an unexpected wave of emotional paralysis hit me. It wasn't the archives, it was me. Julian was showing me that genuine love existed in the small, honest, non-performative details, and my reaction was sheer terror.
My old self, Brian the Hunter, whispered in my ear: He's too good. This is too perfect. You're going to mess it up. When he finds your equivalent of the 'smell'—your terrible secret, your mess—he's going to archive you away.
I physically recoiled slightly, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Hey," Julian said, immediately sensing my sudden withdrawal. He stopped fiddling with the papers and just looked at me. "What's going on?"
The old Brian would have lied. "Nothing, just cold." The old Brian would have deflected with a witty, self-deprecating comment.
But the new Brian—the one who had vowed to live honestly—spoke the truth, albeit in a shaky voice.
"I'm just... I'm scared, Julian," I admitted, the confession tasting metallic in my mouth. "I spent so long searching for a big, dramatic love story, and I built up so many defenses to protect myself from disappointment. This… this is quiet. It's real. And I'm terrified that I'm going to ruin it by waiting for the fight. I keep waiting for the part where I have to survive you, because that's the only dynamic I know."
Julian didn't laugh. He didn't offer a dramatic rebuttal. He simply walked around the table, stopped in front of me, and without touching me, offered me his full attention.
"Brian," he said softly, his voice echoing slightly in the vast room, "I deal in the fragile. I handle things that are over fifty years old, made of paper, and held together by thread. I know how to be gentle. And I know the difference between a weakness and a treasure."
He paused, his eyes holding mine. "You're not a document I'm filing away. You're a conversation I want to keep having. And I don't need you to conquer or fight anything with me. I just need you to stand still for a second. That's it."
His words—his commitment to gentleness and stillness—were the key. They confirmed that this was the safe harbor, the secure ground. The fear didn't vanish entirely, but the urgency did.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Okay," I said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through. "Okay, then show me another ghost's diary."
Julian smiled, that warm, eye-crinkling smile, and led me to a high shelf. He wasn't just showing me his work; he was demonstrating, through his craft, how he approached life and love: with care, precision, and an unyielding reverence for the small, honest details.
As I stood in that silent, sterile vault, watching him handle a brittle old photograph with the utmost tenderness, I realized I was doing more than just surviving my life. I was finally, quietly, thriving. I was ready to rise. I was ready to fly. I had the ground, and now, all I had to do was leap.