Loveless

by Alice Oseman

At the St. John’s College Freshers’ Barbecue, Rooney moved around the courtyard like an ambitious businesswoman at an important networking event. She befriended people in a quick, easy way that left me in awe and, to be honest, very jealous.

I had no option but to trail her like a shadow. I didn’t know how to mingle solo.

I thought about trying to make progress with my finding love situation, but no particular romantic feelings arose for anyone I met, and I was too anxious to try and force myself to feel them.

Rooney, on the other hand, flirted.

I was just very, very jealous that I wasn’t her.

I couldn’t admit to them how desperately I wanted to be in a romantic relationship. Because I knew it was pathetic. Trust me. I completely understood that women should want to be strong and independent and you don’t need to find love to have a successful life. And the fact that I so desperately wanted a boyfriend—or a girlfriend, a partner, whoever, someone—was a sign that I was not strong or independent or self-sufficient or happy alone. I was really quite lonely, and I wanted to be loved. Was that such a bad thing?

Since the events of prom, I’d given some solid thought as to whether I might actually be a lesbian, like Pip. It would make sense. Maybe my lack

interest in boys was because I was, in fact, interested in girls.

Maybe I was bi or pan, since I didn’t even seem to have a preference at this point.

I’d tried to talk to people at the Freshers’ Barbecue, and when we were huddling outside the lecture halls, and at lunch and dinner when I sat with Rooney and all the people she had befriended. I’d tried, and I wasn’t terrible at it; I was polite, and nice, and people didn’t seem to hate me.

But I would never be like Rooney. Not naturally, anyway. I would never be able to kiss some guy just because it was fun, because it made me feel good, because I could do what I wanted. I would never be able to manufacture that spark that she seemed to have with almost everyone she met.

I was a master of the theory. But Rooney was a master of the practice.

It was a jarring sort of Oh, God, this thing is actually real, it’s not just in fanfics and movies. And I’m supposed to be doing that too.

black, gray, white, and purple stripes. I was sure I’d seen that one before, online somewhere, but I couldn’t remember what it meant.

“So,” she said, and looked at me with her big dark eyes. She was objectively very pretty. Maybe she’d be my endgame.

Roommate romance like in a fanfiction.

This was university, for God’s sake. Anything could happen. “D’...

I listened to what she ordered so I’d know what to ask for—vodka and lemonade. Then there was chatting, and more chatting, and more chatting. Well, shouting, actually. Mostly people wanted to talk about what are you studying, and where are you from, and how are you finding it all. I started repeating sentences word for word to multiple people. Like a robot. God. I just wanted to make a friend.

And then there was dancing. I started to notice just how many of the songs were about romance or sex.

Rooney tried to get me to dance with her, just in a casual, fun way, and I tried, I swear I tried, but she gave up quickly and found someone else. I bobbed along the side of various people I’d had conversations with. I was having fun. I was having fun. I was not having fun. It was nearing eleven o’clock when I messaged Pip, mostly because I wanted someone to talk to without having to shout.

There were guys who were objectively “attractive,” of course, by modern-day media standards. There were guys who clearly worked out a lot. There were guys who had fun hair or good fashion or a nice smile. But I wasn’t attracted to any of them. I didn’t feel any sort of desire. When I tried to picture standing close to them, kissing them, touching them … I grimaced. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

I decided to change tactics and look at the girls instead. Girls are all pretty, to be honest. And they have much more variety in appearance.

I abandoned my search. Tonight I would remain kiss-less. Romance-less. And that was fine. Right? That was fine. I didn’t know whether I’d wanted it or whether I hadn’t. Honestly, it might have been a little bit of both.

It was a picture of passion. Movie romance. Desire. How. How could a person reach that point in the space of an hour?

How could she do in one single hour what I was unable to force myself to do in my whole teenage life?

I hated her. I wanted to be her. I ...

“There’s something wrong with you,” I said under my breath. Then I shook my head, trying to get the thought out. That was a bad thought. There was nothing wrong with me. This was just who I was. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about any of it.

I knew this whole thing was ridiculous.

So I just walked. I kept my head down. I didn’t even know what was wrong.

Everything. Myself. I didn’t know. How come everyone else could function and I couldn’t? How could everyone live properly, yet I had ...

I thought about all the people I’d met in the past few days. Hundreds of people my age, all genders, appearances, personalities. I couldn’t t...

I deleted Tinder from my phone, then hit play on About Time again, wondering why picturing myself in any sort of romantic or sexual situation made me feel like I was going to vom and/or run a mile, while romance in movies felt like the sole purpose of being alive.

After what she’d seen in our kitchen, Pip was on the defensive now. It made me feel sad. But this was what Pip did when she got a crush on someone who couldn’t like her back: She shut down the feelings with sheer willpower.

It protected her.

“What? What happened to you’ll find someone eventually because everyone does?” “That’s a straight-people rule,”

She pointed at the guy. I looked at him. He smiled in a way that immediately annoyed me.

and for some reason, the idea of continuing this incredibly new and incredibly weird flirtation with Jason was making me want to abandon my degree and become my brother’s plumbing apprentice.

“You do what?” “Like him.” “Romantically?” “Mm.” “Sexually?” I made a spluttering noise because I was suddenly picturing having sex with Jason. “Who thinks about sex that quickly?”

“Anyway, I do like him.” I do. I did. I probably did.

I needed to chill out and be myself, and if I didn’t feel that spark after a while, then we just weren’t meant to be. But I also knew that this was a chance for me to actually experience romance and be someone who has fun, quirky experiences and doesn’t die alone. No pressure, I guess.

“I’m not sure if I really like him like that yet. I dunno.” Rooney paused. “Well, if the spark’s not there, the spark’s not there.” “No, I mean, we get along really well. Like, I love him as a person.” “Yeah, but is the spark there?” How was I supposed to know that? What the fuck was the spark? What did the spark even feel like?

I thought I’d understood what all these romantic things would feel like—butterflies and the spark and just knowing when you liked someone. I’d read about these feelings hundreds of times in books and fanfic. I’d watched way more romcoms than was probably normal for an eighteen-year-old. But now I was starting to wonder whether these things were just made up.

“So why do you have sex with random guys?” I asked. As soon as I said it, I realized what a blunt and invasive question it was. But I did want to know. It wasn’t like I was judging her—honestly, I wished I had her confidence. But I didn’t understand how she did it, really. Why she wanted to do it. Why would someone go to a stranger’s house and take their clothes off when you could just stay home and have a safe, comfortable wank? Surely the end result was exactly the same.

What if I really didn’t like guys and that was why this whole thing felt so difficult to navigate? As soon as the thought popped into my head, I had to investigate further. I opened a tab on my phone and typed in, “am I gay.” A bunch of links popped up, mostly useless internet quizzes that I already knew would be unhelpful and inaccurate. But one thing caught my eye—the Kinsey Scale test.

And instead of a number, the letter X popped up. You did not indicate any sexual preference. Try adjusting your answers.

This made him let out a spluttery, somewhat-scandalized laugh. Nice. I could flirt. I was acing this.

He’d felt pressured into having his first kiss. Because people were bullying him for not having kissed anyone, he forced himself to do it, and it was bad. A lot of teenagers did that. But hearing it from Jason made me really, really angry.

I knew what it was like to feel bad about not having kissed anyone. And to feel pressured into doing it because everyone else was. Because you were weird if you hadn’t. Because this was what being a human was all about.

“Yeah. I think I’d choose to be gay if I could.”

“You know,” said Pip. “Straight people don’t think shit like that.” “Oh. Really?” “Yeah. Thinking shit like that is, like, step one to realizing you’re a lesbian.” “Oh. Right.” I laughed awkwardly. I was still pretty sure I wasn’t a lesbian. Or maybe I was and I was just really repressed. Or maybe I was just X on the Kinsey Scale. Nothing.