Stranger.

When I was 18, I fell in love. Not for the first time but significantly so. She had blonde hair and an undercut. She sang songs on her acoustic guitar and wore woolly hats pulled low. She sang Like all the boys before, like all the boys, boys, boys, boys.

I didn’t know it was love, even though I did call it that. Admiration? I assumed. No. It was love. And the fact she did not love me was not a problem. I think it is safest, anyway, to love only those you know very well or those who are perfect strangers. 

The fact of loving a stranger makes it no less defining. In many ways she shaped me more than most people who know my name. One time I met her—she was about to release a new album and her manager invited about 20 fans to listen to it first in a fancy hotel basement in London. It was around the corner from the BBC and though there was a table of snacks and drinks, it was clear that they were only for her and her team. 

She recognised me from Twitter and said hello and, I think—though my memory is hazy—she said my name, too. I, on the other hand, said something deeply insufficient. I don’t know what. My ego has erased it. 

For five years I had attended her shows, danced at the back, far away from the fans at the front who were undignified in their affection. I found the way they clamoured for her grotesque. Wikipedia says ‘a fandom is a subculture composed of fans characterised by a feeling of empathy and camaraderie with others who share a common interest.’ My camaraderie wasn’t with them. I wondered if she would notice me for my lack of trying to be noticed. I was trying, you understand, but I didn’t want her to know that. Deep inside, though, I yearned to touch her arm along with the others. 

My admiration was aspiration—she talked about having panic attacks and I, in the middle of my own, would try to manifest some of her strength. I remember being sat in the hairdresser once, with the cloak tied around my neck like a noose, heavy pads on my shoulders weighing me down. I felt trapped—my hair was half cut. Imagine getting up and leaving now! I would be a laughingstock. It wasn’t an option. Panic rose within me, making my top lip prickle over with sweat. Her voice came on the radio. She sang The only time I feel safe.

My ignorance about her reality only strengthened my resolve to be more like her. I wrote my own narrative over her words like tracing paper. That distance we have, from those we love who we do not know, is important. 

When I did, finally, meet her, all I walked away with was a grainy selfie and a deep sense of melancholy.

A friend texted me the other day to say he was waiting in line to get a book signed and to meet one of his favourite authors. I baulked at the idea, responded that I could think of nothing worse. I don’t wait in signing queues because I am terrified that the meeting will be underwhelming (which it will) and then whenever I read that author’s work—work I have, until then, found to be a great source of intellectual stimulation and/or an escape from myself—I will only be able to think of how I came across to them, and if they—worse of all and extremely likely—immediately forgot the encounter entirely. No, my engagement with art must be free from reflection on my own inadequacy. 

I’m 30 now and I still love her but in a different way. There is nostalgic affection that draws me back. When she posts a photo to Instagram, I look at it. When she releases a new song, I listen to it, with religious devotion, despite thinking that some of it is only okay. I went to Glasgow to see her perform at the beginning of the year and instead of buying standing tickets I bought seated ones, up in the Royal Circle with the parents of younger fans and those who just want to watch and listen rather than dance. You get a better view, but you’re also far away from the fever of it. 

I’ve recently fallen for someone else. She is also blonde, but she goes on podcasts to talk about comfort food and feminism rather than running and the climate crisis. She sings Look up, lean back, be strong.

Her lyrics are for women who grew up on MSN: after Lewinsky but before #MeToo and TikTok. We walk home in the blackness of night with our keys clutched between our fingers as a weapon. We are told we are too much. Too loud. We take up too much space. 

I love her like I love Sheila Heti, Deborah Levy and Sally Rooney. But there is a cute dance routine to go with the words. Women who write about the fact of being a woman in this permutation of the world provide a sense of camaraderie that I am afraid would be stripped away if they were more to me than their art. That safety, again, in not knowing.

But because our relationship is only in its infancy and my wish to be seen was overriding my fear of it, I recently said hello to her. We were in the same place at the same time, thanks to pure luck and the fact that the Edinburgh Fringe is fit to bursting with British celebrities. She was coming out of the toilets with her guitarist and—I’ll tell you even though it pains me now to relive—I stopped her and told her I was obsessed with her. She smiled and asked me what my name was. I told her and felt very aware of what my face was doing. Her skin was glowing and her eyebrows were perfect. She was wearing bright red lipstick and against the flash of colour her teeth were white and straight, though clearly undoctored. She was late, she said, for a friend’s show. I said Go, go! Enjoy your show! And that was that. She was very nice, there was nothing wrong with this meeting. Aside from it having happened at all.

I realise that this is about my ego. 

I told T what had happened. I was fizzing with adrenaline—laughing maniacally about how awkward I am. Are you glad you said hello? He asked me. Yes. But later I thought; no. I told him how beautiful she was up close. How cool. How soft her arm felt even though I didn’t remember touching her. He laughed at me, told me he thought she looked like a very normal person. Normal? There is nothing normal about saying hello to a stranger you are in love with.