I STOOD IN THE green room at a big concert in Sydney, thinking about my brown-haired crush, Dom, who had been occupying my mind more than I cared to admit. We’d seen each other at parties a few times over the past six months, and each time we spoke it was a buzz. Giddy idiots.
Then, as if I’d conjured him with my thoughts, there he was. First I spotted a couple of his friends milling around the green room, and then just the smallest sliver of his brown hair and shoulders. It’s fascinating how, when you like someone, you’re able to detect their presence by even the tiniest tuft of their physicality. You cannot help yourself. You are aware. Out of the corner of your eye you notice their movements, the way they interact with the people around them. I avoided saying hello for a couple of hours—playing it cool. But part of me was occupied by where he was at all times. There was something about him, about us, that I sensed would spell trouble. It made me feel oddly foolish, but I couldn’t help being drawn to him.
When the gig finished, everyone kept mingling. We all wanted to hold on to the buzzing energy of the night for as long as possible; I couldn’t imagine the restless ringing in my ears if I were to take a cab home to bed. I finally greeted Dom. He didn’t look surprised to see me, and I wondered if he’d been tracking my presence around the room all night too. My friends and his friends became a huge pack of excitable wolves as we prowled through the city streets to a nightclub nearby. We split off into smaller groups, some people dawdling at traffic lights, a couple stopping to buy a lighter at a convenience store. After several blocks, I found myself walking the Hyde Park pathways with Dom and our mutual friend Bella. Bella was younger than us, in her early twenties, with big round eyes and a loud laugh—the epitome of fun-loving. Her cheekiness was contagious, and I found myself rediscovering a forgotten recklessness in her presence. I felt totally in the moment, not worrying about work or overthinking my every move.
I suddenly knew that if I continued to hang out with Dom tonight, we would go home together. I pictured how it would happen. We would go with our mutual friends to one bar, then another, then maybe another. We would chase the places that were still open at 5 am in the dwindling Sydney nightlife scene. At the second bar, we would stand side by side. I could see it all unfolding. At the last bar, I knew that one by one, our friends would leave, hailing cabs at sunrise. Eventually, it would just be the two of us.
We stood on the street in the soft glow of a new day, with golden light filtering between the skyscrapers. I was right. Dom took my hand and I let him lead me down the street.
We started seeing each other regularly and I began to stay at his place a few nights a week. Our toothbrushes stood side by side in his bathroom. I had one drawer in the bedroom, into which I squished spare underwear, a couple of t-shirts and a few skincare essentials. I would take out a crinkled aluminium tube of hand cream each night and apply it before bed. In these moments, I felt like we were playing the part of an esteemed older couple in our sixties, him reading a book while I lathered up my hands and elbows with fragrant skin food. In the film, I’d look like a half-Asian version of Meryl Streep, her sensuality still intact, with an easy soft smile that said, ‘I’m in bed with my wacky best friend.’
In short, I fell in love.
It was so vastly different from my previous relationship. It wasn’t a smooth, pure ride, instead I felt challenged on almost a daily basis. Dom was brash and passionate in the private moments between us but also out in public. He could charm waiters into giving us free wine at a restaurant but on the same night would bicker aggressively with a stranger for pushing in front of us in a taxi line. He was hot-headed but hilarious. Charismatic and chaotic. The dynamic frightened me a little sometimes, and some days I wasn’t sure whether he would meet me with sweet eyes or a bitter tongue. I had never been with someone I felt like I had to win over anew each week, and that was exciting. I caught myself wondering if he was my new Gnarley Davidson.
I was nervous yet inspired around him. We had an intensity and a symmetry of taste unlike anything I had encountered before. Finally, someone understood how my brain seemed to work and was turned on by it! No remark was too out there, no humour too dark, no left-field reference unnoted. When I didn’t feel like we were on the cusp of an argument, I felt high and unified. And while he could be mean-spirited, and even unpleasant towards me, I was determined to get out of my comfort zone. I had lingered in my last relationship out of so-called duty, thinking that stepping away would disappoint everyone around us. I felt empowered to do something different this time.
We had been dating for a few months, but I hadn’t introduced him to anyone in my family. I’d told my parents about him, keeping the details vague, but I was nowhere near ready to bring him to one of our loud family gatherings. I told myself this was to ensure there was no outside influence this time round. At last, I wasn’t performing for my family or friends. The only person I needed to please was myself and him; it was an exclusive bubble we could build together. Yes, I thought. This bubble will be our strength.
It was new territory in a number of ways. He was a father, which intimidated me at first, prompting a tidal wave of questions. Will he still have time for a relationship with me? How could I possibly insert myself into a parent and child dynamic? What if the kid doesn’t like me? Our chemistry assured me that I had to try. When I reluctantly told Dad that my sort-of-maybe boyfriend had a child, he calmly reminded me that ‘h’everyone’s got baggage now. This is what ’appens when you date mature,’ emphasising the word ‘mature’. And he was right—I wasn’t ploughing my way through pashes in my twenties anymore. My new relationship seemed modern and beautiful in the way that any great contemporary love is. It wasn’t straightforward but we would take our time, and I had an immeasurable amount of love to give.
I thought about what our future could look like. Some days, we spoke openly and extensively about having a baby of our own at some point. We’d talk about it excitedly at a pub, and these conversations filled me with a certainty that screamed, ‘Look at us, world! We are so in love with the idea of being together, and we are so certain of our connection that we’d even consider being tethered together forever with the introduction of a fucking baby!’ But other days, the future seemed rocky, as if I couldn’t put a foot or a word in the right place, and he would be distant and harsh, snapping at me for little things. Before long he would warm again, and the satisfaction of having won him back was like a drug-induced high—until it dipped again. I always forgave us for these low points; I was nurturing something mature and complex. At the end of these more challenging days, I’d arrive at his place with pad thai and we’d eventually find each other again.
It wasn’t long before he burst the baby bubble. We had woken up and had sex, and afterwards he lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. I was lying next to him, the large window above our heads streaming the early sunlight onto our faces and the tops of our bare torsos. I could see the emerging blue sky and the dappled swaying leaves of a huge eucalyptus tree. We were silent for a minute. The only sounds were the tree’s leaves kissing the window in the breeze and birds calling to each other. He cut the comfortable post-orgasm silence with a short statement: ‘I, uhh, I think I’m done.’
I turned my head and saw his lips pursed together. Confused, I responded, ‘Pardon?’
‘Kids. I think I’m done. Like, I don’t want to have any more.’
The conversation seemed to come out of nowhere, bluntly beamed in by a spaceship above our heads. It yanked me right out of my serene sunlight and green canopy gazing. I waited a few seconds, thoughts racing through my head. I needed to tread carefully. I didn’t want to endanger the calm dynamic between us.
I breathed in, then I replied, ‘Oh, okay.’
He was silent, lips still tight, staring at the ceiling and not at me. ‘I think I’m done’ was echoing around and around my mind. The way he’d said ‘done’ was matter-of-fact and cold. I imagined he knew how much the statement would impact me, yet he’d offered no comforting words. He’d spoken like someone finally stepping back from an artwork, feeling satisfied by their efforts. They’d purse their lips, then state simply and defiantly, ‘I’m done.’
I wanted to ask why. I wanted to have a conversation. But I glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth, not wanting to push up against this immovable wall he had built between us. He was strong-willed, and his chilly tone told me that he didn’t want to talk about it. I lay there, processing furiously.
Dom often told me I was the only one who accepted him ‘warts ’n all’. He would always come back to that phrase. It translated as: ‘Take me, take all of me, take the parts of me that shine bright along with the parts of me that may be difficult to handle. Because that’s love.’ I believed that I was the only person on earth who could jigsaw so well around his quirks, his blunt decisiveness, and therefore this was my part to play. I believed in the fantastical narrative of imperfect perfection, and true love conquering all. We remained silent, side by side, and I thought that perhaps this was part of my path to maturity.
I turned onto my left side, facing him. I wanted him to face me too, to smile at me, but he stayed where he was on his back.
‘Maybe,’ I began, then stopped for a moment, searching for the words to smooth over the tension. ‘Maybe I don’t need to have any children. Maybe I, I don’t need to have a baby.’
He didn’t say anything, so we simply lay there for another few moments. Then he got out of bed and started getting ready for the day, scuffing his feet on the carpet as he made his way to the bathroom. I told myself that becoming pregnant was selfish, narcissistic and unnecessary. I assured myself that we would be enough. He and I, and the family that already existed. That would fulfil me. I could do this for us. Whenever our relationship made me feel uncomfortable, I told myself I had to be brave and bold for us. I wanted it to work. A relationship was a seesaw of compromises. I hadn’t yet asked anything of him, but I was sure he would come to the table if I did so. And how I responded to his baby veto card now would set the tone for all our future challenges. Besides, I knew from my own family history that relationships weren’t meant to be easy.
I hit literal rock bottom a few months later, with my hair grazing the dirtiest nightclub floor as I was faced with a scene I would never forget.
It began on a relaxed Saturday morning, reading a newspaper in Dom’s bed. Through the open door to the ensuite bathroom, I could see his nude body sitting on the toilet, leaning forward as he looked at his phone. I felt the sort of serene comfort you feel when you think, I’ve found a home in someone. I’m still attracted to this person even when they’re pushing a poop out; isn’t love grand like that?
We sat downstairs to eat toast. My hands enveloped an elegant handle-less mug while I smelled the fragrant green tea inside—wet earth and nuts. I felt calm as I left him shortly after breakfast, as we would be meeting up later that evening at a party he was throwing.
He’d been a successful DJ for years, but this was the first time he had curated and organised a proper event. It was at a large warehouse, and I was looking forward to it. He’d also invited his sister, Natasha, to attend. She was coming on her own, and wouldn’t know anyone else there besides him and me.
The fact he’d invited his sister was a tangible step in the right direction for us as a couple. We were no longer a bubble of two people egged on by late-night escapades—this was a trusted hang with a close member of family. What a statement, I thought, to be left alone, unsupervised and therefore trusted, with his sister. Miska and her boyfriend were also coming along. They knew about my new relationship, but tonight they were finally seeing us together. Maybe, I thought, I could introduce Dom to my brother next, and then my parents.
My friends and I arrived at the venue around 9 pm. A cavernous warehouse, it was packed with flesh already. Exposed wooden beams angled down from the high ceiling, red curtains draped around the sides of the stage where the DJ decks were set up. A beautiful boy with long dark hair wearing a white corset had jumped up from the crowd and was dancing on stage next to the opening DJ. Swaying and grinding, he looked stunning. Lime-green lasers cut through the air and spotlights flashed through the darkness.
We found Dom and his sister, Natasha, backstage. I’d texted him hours earlier to say when we’d be getting there, and then texted again as we were lining up outside. He hadn’t responded to either message. But I smiled, recognising his sister from the photos I’d seen, and walked right up to introduce myself. Dom was standing off to the side speaking to someone else, and acknowledged us all with a curt wave and a nod in our direction.
While most of the DJs and friends crammed into that small red-walled room were choosing beers, I chose vodka. There was a large plastic bowl filled with packets of crisps, lollies and chocolate. I grabbed a block of chocolate and allowed the slow melting squares to mellow the taste of shitty vodka on my tongue. It buoyed me to watch my worlds collide as Miska began making conversation with Natasha. The scene made me happy despite the fact that Dom seemed to be avoiding any real interaction with me or my friends in the room. He had still barely said a word to me since we arrived, but I put it down to pre-performance nerves. I was used to him being hot and cold, one moment clingy and the next elusive.
When it came time for him to DJ, my friends, Dom’s sister and I ventured out into the crowd. It was past midnight, and the dancefloor was almost suffocating, sucking you in if you dared to get close to it. Tonight we wanted a better vantage point to see the stage and a bit more room to breathe. We squeezed through the crowd and went up a set of stairs to an upper level. We could lean our elbows on the railing and look down to the writhing bodies below, spying on heads, bare shoulders and an occasional deep-tongued make-out session. We started doing deliberately goofy dance moves to lighten the mood. It was techno. Minimal. Sharp. It should have been the perfect environment for joy. It was industrial chic rave territory. The party was, literally, a raving success. Abduct me! I would normally think. But not tonight. Something was off and had been for the last couple of hours. My smiles at Miska and her boyfriend were fake. I was faking my enjoyment.
Among all those bodies, I felt completely alone.
I’d had nights out before when I’d felt isolated and uneasy. Despite being surrounded by friends, there would be a glazed sheen in my eyes that translated as ‘I’m not present’. My mind would be elsewhere, wandering towards something that was troubling me, no matter how many drinks I threw back, or how good my outfit was or how many people around me were laughing like fucking hyenas. All of those things would only make my loneliness louder. With the vacancy in my eyes conveniently hidden by the darkened room, I fake laughed as Miska took her tote bag off her shoulder and twirled it around.
The real beauty in a club is when you feel love. You feel embraced by the people around you in a collective warmth and euphoria. There are smiles on the dancefloor, and you feel safe. You feel powerful, yet light. You belong. There’s a purity to it that’s difficult to articulate. Tonight, I felt the absence of love. The club seemed sinister but I couldn’t pinpoint why. Did I feel thrown because Dom was being distant towards me? I brushed off the theory. This night is not about you, Linda. This is a big deal for him. You’re here to show your support and have a good time!
At 3 am, my friends announced they were leaving. Smart move, I thought. If I left with them, I could cleanse my face of the night’s grit, then moisturise and be fast asleep by 4 am. I could technically sleep for six hours straight and wake at ten, fresh enough to make it to yum cha with my brother’s family. But that’s not what a supportive girlfriend would do. Natasha was still by my side, and she didn’t know another person there. It was Dom’s party, so we’d be there until the end, exhausted and proud that it was a packed and successful event.
I hugged Miska and her boyfriend goodbye, then turned to Natasha. I needed a change of scenery.
‘Should we go down there for a bit?’ I gestured to the dancefloor below us.
Natasha nodded. She looked like an older, slightly more tired version of Dom. Tired, but still cheeky. They had the same mischievous eyes. We descended the stairs and wormed our way through the crowd to a spot by the right-hand side of the stage, near the wall.
Natasha turned to me. ‘I’m getting a water, do you want one?’
I smiled and shook my head, and she disappeared into the swarm of bodies towards the bar.
There is always a moment during a night out when things feel like they could turn bitter. That’s generally when I would call it and politely get the fuck out. When I stretched a night out longer than I should, with more drinks to expand its lifespan, I never felt better for it. There was always something gloomy about that shift—the moment when it takes real commitment to stay out, hunting for a thrill. At best, it was ridiculous—where would you end up? And with whom? At worst, it was desperate and dark. There was a heavy little knot in my gut telling me that tonight would be the latter.
I looked around, but everyone I knew had long gone. I watched Dom DJing up on the stage, his shoulders and neck moving to the music, dark hair falling forward onto his forehead, headphones resting around his neck as he looked to the crowd below, and they looked back at him. Some loose-jawed, all wide-eyed. He looked commanding; I always liked that about him.
And then, I saw it.
The ‘sex eyes’ look. The specific expression a person gives when they want to be fucked by someone. I first saw it when I was eighteen years old, at a small gig for a touring US rapper. Instead of watching him on stage, I started noticing a girl in the front row. I couldn’t believe how sexy she looked as she stared unwaveringly at the rapper on stage. She had a doll-like face, a Disney princess in a tight white tank top. I was still very much a virgin, and I couldn’t imagine giving anyone that sort of unashamed, sex-smouldering stare. It was assertive. There was no doubt she wanted him to notice her. I was even more mesmerised when I saw the rapper hold her gaze and say something to a guy to the side of the stage, who then walked out and crouched in front of her. In a matter of seconds he lifted her up onto the stage where they then disappeared. I didn’t see her again after the performance ended, but I imagined she’d met the rapper and they had a great conversation backstage.
That look scares me.
At Dom’s party, I saw the look so clearly, it was like a sickening film I’d accidentally flicked onto. The girl was right at the front of the crowd, with short dark hair. She was leaning back slightly, dancing confidently, staring directly at Dom on stage. Lips pouted, eyes homed in like dark sensual bullets. It was like there was a straight line from her eyes to his. His eyes on her were intense, and there was a mischievous depth behind them that I recognised. He’d given me that look before—how could he possibly be dishing it out to someone else? I quickly dismissed it: It’s dark in here, Linda. You can’t see properly. This isn’t something, it’s fine.
They held each other’s gaze for a few more seconds. A few minutes later, he walked down the stairs towards the backstage area, and I stood my ground, continuing my conversation with his sister who had returned with a glass of water.
It was almost 4 am. To my left I could see he was still by the backstage door, and the dark-haired woman had walked up to him. They were having a conversation. My heart started beating hard and fast, but I kept talking to Natasha about how to get an Uber from this part of town and our plans for the next day. Meanwhile, I kept watching Dom and the woman talk, their faces obscured by shadows.
I looked away for a second, and then I looked back.
Were my eyes tripping in the strobes? Did the music suddenly get really fucking loud? They were kissing. What the fuck? I was frozen. What the FUCK.
The man kissing another woman by the backstage door had made me Bolognese the night before; that morning he’d taken a shit with the door open, and then told me he loved me.
I looked down. I looked back up. I saw their bodies disappear through the backstage door. The only thing backstage was the measly platter of snacks and shitty vodka. And a disabled toilet.
I didn’t say another word to his sister, who was mid-sentence. I followed Dom and the woman through the backstage door, ten seconds behind them. I didn’t think about it; I didn’t let myself think.
By the time I walked in, the room was empty. The toilet door was shut and the lock read ‘engaged’ in firm red. My mind went into overdrive. I didn’t know how to act—whether to wait there or run away or bang on the door. But I needed to prove that what was happening was real. I bent down, so low my hair swept along the horrible club floor, and peeked under the bathroom door.
I saw their feet and ankles. They were entwined. Sickness and disbelief flooded my body. Heartbreak and confusion crashed through everything I thought I knew. Denial offered me the briefest life raft—maybe this wasn’t them. Maybe the couple behind this door were just horny strangers who had snuck in from the crowd.
But I knew his sneakers. I remembered the moment he’d bought them—he’d sent me a picture of them in the store and then I’d complimented them when I saw him that night. I was looking at the same jeans and sneaker combo right now. Her sneakers were white but a little scuffed, her delicate bare ankles moving back and forth while they fucked.
I wanted to backspace every detail I couldn’t help noticing, but the scene branded itself onto my brain like a foul tattoo. The positions and the way they were swaying, but the sound of them too—noisy and messy and so completely unapologetic. Every past promise of love and every future plan eviscerated as I knelt there with my curtain of hair brushing the concrete floor.
I stood up abruptly. What do you do now, you idiot? You’re right there, they’re going to walk out at any moment. But I couldn’t move. Anger had begun to fight its way to the forefront of my emotions: I wanted to confront him. I wanted him to know that I had been there, right fucking there, watching him as he had broken every promise he’d ever made me.
The door banged open with the loud bravado of the overly confident, or drunk, or high, or a combination of all three. The girl was pretty, of course. She was smirking as she walked out, as if she was satisfied. She looked me right in the eye as they emerged, perhaps wondering who’d been listening to them fuck. She sauntered past me towards the exit without a backward glance.
He was half a step behind her. When he saw me, I said in a firm, confident voice, ‘We need to talk.’
He didn’t say anything, but nor did he look sheepish or guilty. He followed me through the nightclub while a different DJ continued to fill in for him. We pushed through the floppy bodies that are left on dancefloors after 4 am. It was still packed. My thoughts raced. I need to get OUT into the fresh air, I need to get out OUT OUT.
I pushed open the double doors to the street outside. People were mingling, smoking, sitting on the kerbs in the backstreet.
I stood against a wall and he stood opposite me, like a teenage boy about to get in trouble with his mother. His hands were clasped behind his back, with his entire head turned to the side, dismissing my eye contact as he casually observed the street.
Everything in me was desperate to scream with fury, but I didn’t want to seem angry. I knew how biting he could get when he was mad and I didn’t want to fight in the street. I didn’t want to cause a scene.
I asked softly but directly, ‘What just happened? I want you to tell me what just happened, and why you did that?’
He shrugged. Still not looking at me.
I repeated myself. ‘What just happened?’
He laughed. He gave another weird look to the side and then a Larry David upturned hands shrug.
Then he nodded. ‘Something happened.’
As he said it, I could suddenly smell freshly baked bread. It was everywhere, filling my nostrils. There was a bread factory a couple of doors down that must have been waking and baking for the day. I looked at him, searching his face and trying to figure out how to respond. I didn’t want to lose control. Hold it in, Linda. No crying. No anger. Sadness, yes. Composure, yes. I thought if I asked him calmly then maybe he would give me answers to the questions banging around in my head.
‘And how do you feel about that?’
No response. More ‘meh’ shrugging.
‘Do you feel bad about that at all? Like maybe that would have hurt me? And did you think we were just going to go home together?’
Nothing.
His silence hurt more than I thought possible. It was as if every piece of goodwill and love I had towards him curdled and turned to stone. By saying nothing, he had told me everything.
In the morning I woke up and saw my crumpled top and jeans lying in the corner of my room. I remembered what had happened in a flash. It had been one of the worst nights of my life, but I felt a tiny bit of gratitude for it. It had been so immensely fucked, but it had also been unwaveringly telling. Not just about him, or us, but about me and my reactions.
Even in that terrible moment, standing outside on the street while he shrugged at me, I was so conscious of how I was coming across. Even in that moment, I wanted him to like me. I wanted to look calm and attractive still, and not make a scene. I was trying to react ‘perfectly’, whatever that meant. I was watching myself before each thought-out line of my script. A huge part of me had wanted to act authentically, with anger and devastation. But I did not want anyone—not him, not the beautiful kids smoking in the street—to see me crack.
I lay in bed, remembering an incident from a Year 7 art class. I was thirteen years old, sitting at the end of a long table. We’d been asked to create a self-portrait, but instead of using ourselves as the primary subject, we had to draw something that represented us, something that was important to our identity. Using lead pencil, I started sketching a large oval in the middle of my page. I did a really shitty job of the shading, but it was easily recognisable by the time I was finished. One by one we stood up to present our work to the class. One girl had drawn a pair of ballet pointe shoes, another a serene beach landscape. I pushed myself up out of my chair and, as I raised my paper, I heard laughter from around the room.
‘She drew a mirror, ha ha!’
‘That’s so vain!’
I blushed with shame and embarrassment as they giggled and snickered. I stammered as I tried to explain myself.
‘No, no, it’s not that. It’s …’ I was tearing up. ‘It’s because I’m always thinking about how other people see me.’
I realised now that the fucking mirror had been up in the air above me on the street the night before. I thought of the times during my relationship with Dom that I had shrunk my reactions or discounted how I’d really felt about something because I’d been afraid of how I’d be seen by him. I’d manoeuvred from a long-term relationship where I’d been fixated on how it came across to the outside world and ‘ticked boxes’ to another relationship where I’d only cared about how it came across to him. But it had gone too far. I could also admit to myself that the reason I hadn’t introduced him to my family wasn’t because we were building something new, ‘just for us’, but because deep down I never felt safe enough to. My values were bent out of whack. My future had evaporated into a puff of bread-scented air.