Sitting down watching Young Royals was the liberating part of my Hunter years, especially seeing Omar Rudberg playing Simon. I learned to love him in and out of the show. And after my nth breakup with a guy named Leo—a cruel irony given my own former identity—his song Call me by my name got me through that phase, which is a funny thing considering what the lyrics were.
During that period of intense, dramatic yearning, you'd always hear me sing:
"I just wanna feel it all over, something that I've never known
Love me 'til I break my cover, I just wanna let it go
So, hit me in the face, something real as pain
Like we can't get any closer, I just wanna lose myself."
That was the theme song of my pre-Julian existence: a desperate, almost masochistic plea for intensity. I wanted love to hit me in the face, to be real as pain, because pain was quantifiable. Pain proved the existence of the emotion. If it didn't hurt, I figured, it wasn't deep enough. I was asking someone to love me until I "broke my cover," but the truth was, I hadn't let anyone get close enough to find the cover, let alone break it.
Now, with Julian, the volume was turned way down. Our relationship wasn't a pulsing dance track; it was an ambient soundscape, gentle and consistent. And it felt like everything I had ever wanted, but also, terrifyingly, like nothing I had ever been trained to value.
The Weight of Stillness
We had moved past the stage of "dates" and into the space of "time spent." This was the true, uncharted territory. Anyone can shine for three dates; it takes effort and deep compatibility to survive the mundane.
Our routine was built on small, shared moments: Julian would come over to my place on Friday evenings to grade documents, and I would sit beside him, attempting to learn the four basic knitting stitches. I'd make my terrible espresso (the same one I'd ordered on our first date, only now I drank it with the knowledge of how strong it was) and he'd nurse his cinnamon tea.
We weren't constantly staring into each other's eyes; we were simply existing in parallel, connected by the low light of my living room and the scent of paper and cinnamon.
It was in these moments that the intensity of my former life felt most ridiculous. I had once demanded that love should "hit me in the face," and now I was treasuring the feeling of Julian's foot resting innocently beside mine under the coffee table.
But that peacefulness was a heavy weight. I kept waiting for the music to swell, for the argument to erupt, for the dramatic conflict that would prove we were real. I was convinced that deep love required a shared battle scar, and Julian and I hadn't even had a tense disagreement over the thermostat.
My friends were perplexed. "So, you're telling me," Clara said one evening, "that the most dramatic thing that happened this week was that he organized your sock drawer into 'Athletic,' 'Dress,' and 'Whimsical' categories?"
"Yes," I confirmed, "and he found my missing passport, which was filed under 'Things I'm Afraid to Look At.'"
"That's not love, Brian," Liam declared. "That's a highly efficient roommate."
But it was love, because it was precision. Julian didn't try to change me; he just provided a framework for my inherent chaos. He saw my life as a collection of forgotten documents and gently brought them into order, without judgment. He made my life feel less like a dramatic, unedited scream, and more like a carefully proofread manuscript.
The Gentle Test
The internal tension eventually had to find an outlet, and it didn't come in the form of a dramatic confrontation, but a small, petty disagreement over our respective calendars.
Julian was meticulously organized, which, in my world, was an offense to spontaneity. He liked to plan the following weekend on Monday, ensuring all activities were logged in a shared digital calendar. I, on the other hand, functioned on a system of "I'll do it when I feel the ambient pressure of obligation."
The catalyst was a simple museum fundraising gala that Julian had to attend. He invited me two weeks in advance, and I happily confirmed. The following Monday, he sent a gentle reminder about the tuxedo rental, noting the cut-off date.
I responded with an overly casual, "Relax, it's fine, I'll handle it."
Julian's reply came back almost immediately: "I am relaxed. I simply wanted to ensure you had time. The last time you promised to 'handle it,' you accidentally ordered a life-sized cardboard cutout of Nicki Minaj instead of an album."
That was a true story, and it cut deep. I wasn't offended by his memory; I was offended by the calm accuracy of his assessment of my planning skills. It felt like criticism, and criticism, to the Brian of old, was an invitation to fight back.
I retreated to my bedroom and started spiraling. He thinks I'm irresponsible. He's going to categorize me as 'Too Chaotic, Archive Closed.' He's going to dump me for someone who uses a bullet journal.
I picked up my phone, my fingers hovering over a truly insane text message—something about his Con Air obsession being a metaphor for his inability to commit to a serious genre. I was actively trying to create the "real as pain" drama I thought I needed. I wanted the relationship to "hit me in the face" so I could justify the intensity of my feelings.
Instead, I tossed the phone across the room—a quieter toss this time—and grabbed my jacket. I walked over to Julian's place, unannounced and visibly agitated.
When he opened the door, he didn't look startled or annoyed that I had broken our unspoken rule of texting before showing up. He just looked concerned. He was wearing his same old gray sweater and was, of course, drinking tea.
"Hi," I managed, my voice tight. "We need to talk about the gala. And the socks. And the fact that you think I'm a mess."
He ushered me in and sat me down on his familiar, comfortable sofa. The jazz record was playing again, soft and steady.
"Brian," Julian said, his voice measured, "I don't think you're a mess. I think you're overwhelmed, and you've spent your life compensating for that feeling by performing charisma. I love the chaos. But I also love organization, and I will protect both your sanity and my own by setting up a framework."
He reached out and took my hand, not with passion, but with comforting solidity. "I am not looking for someone who is perfect, Brian. I am looking for someone who is honest. Your honesty is the rarest, most priceless thing about you. When I remind you to rent the tuxedo, it's not judgment; it's an act of care. It's me making sure you don't have to struggle."
He paused, letting the jazz fill the silence. "The lyrics you love—hit me in the face, something real as pain—that's a lyric about feeling alive, not about being hurt. It's about the raw, visceral feeling of presence. I want you to feel that presence here, without the pain. I want the realness to be the safety, Brian. The safe space is the love."
He didn't need to fight me. He simply absorbed the tension, held it gently, and handed me back the facts.
I broke down right there, not with tears of sadness, but with the sudden, seismic relief of having my defenses finally, carefully dismantled. I confessed my ridiculous fear: that easy love wasn't deep love. That I didn't know how to trust a relationship that didn't feel constantly on the brink of collapse.
"I'm an archivist," Julian repeated, smiling slightly. "I know that the oldest, most valuable things are the ones that were preserved, not the ones that barely survived a fire. You, Brian, you are immensely valuable. I intend to preserve you."
That night, we didn't order food or watch a movie. We just sat there, talking for hours, defining the space between us—a space built on mutual respect for one another's operating systems. We talked about his deepest archival finds, my fear of failure, and the irony of my singing intense pop songs when I crave quiet intimacy.
When I finally left, the cold air outside felt insignificant. I didn't feel depleted or exhausted; I felt built up. The lyrics of the song still swirled in my head, but they had a new meaning:
I just wanna feel it all over, (I feel the comfort, the ease, the safety.)
Love me 'til I break my cover, (He has broken my cover simply by refusing to fight.)
I just wanna let it go. (I have let go of the pressure, the drama, the hunt.)
I was no longer seeking pain to prove the love was real. I was accepting the stillness, because in Julian's quiet precision, I had found the profound, enduring realness that no dramatic breakup or pop chorus could ever rival. I had stopped performing, and in the absence of the show, I had finally begun to love.