I grew up in Los Angeles a hopeless romantic with my head permanently tilted toward the sky and a copy of “Romeo and Juliet” worn from rereading. I devoured that book far too young and believed in it far too earnestly. Soulmates weren’t just an idea — they were a promise. I believed in love that defied reason and timing, in glances across rooms that changed the course of your life, in poetry etched into every heartbeat.
But by 21, the fairy tale had started to crack. A traumatic experience with a man I had trusted shattered my sense of safety and desire. For three years, I withdrew from dating entirely. I told people I was “focusing on myself,” which was true in part, but it was also a shield. I was afraid — afraid of being seen, of being wanted, of wanting back. I felt like a locked door that I didn’t even remember how to open.
Still, no matter how deeply I buried it, I couldn’t stop craving the very thing I feared most: love. The real kind. The sweeping, soul-consuming kind I had always dreamed of. The kind that felt like coming home.
Then I moved into an actors’ house in Los Feliz — a beautiful kind of chaos only L.A. could produce. Four roommates, each chasing a different dream, all of us messy, creative and trying to make something of ourselves. One of them had just arrived from Australia. I still remember the first time I saw him — tall, sun-kissed skin, dark golden curls, movie-star smile and a voice that made everything sound like a love song. Even “pass the almond milk” felt flirtatious coming from him.
He had that magnetic energy — the kind that makes you turn your head in a crowded room without even knowing why. He was already well-known back home, but here he was starting from scratch. That vulnerability, mixed with his charm, made him impossible not to notice. I didn’t just notice. I was drawn in like a tide to the moon.
We started spending time together, at first just casually, but then constantly. Hikes through Griffith Park, conversations that started over coffee and lasted until 2 a.m. in the kitchen. Walks through Silver Lake where our hands brushed just slightly too long. He listened intently. He remembered little details I’d said in passing. He looked at me like I was a story he wanted to read slowly.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I started to feel it — those soft, fluttering butterflies that made it hard to breathe around him. The kind of feeling I thought I’d lost forever. I’d catch myself staring at him, not even trying to hide it. My heart would do this little skip when he laughed at my jokes or looked at me too long. I started to wonder: Is this it? Could he be the one?
I couldn’t even see other guys anymore. He had warped my radar. Every song reminded me of him. My mind raced ahead, imagining a future that didn’t even exist yet — a montage of quiet mornings, long walks, maybe even moving back to Australia with him. It was completely unhinged and yet felt undeniably real.
One night, we were sitting on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. A movie played softly in the background, something neither of us were really watching. There was a long silence — not awkward, just full — and then he turned to me, his eyes searching mine.
“I really like you,” he said, barely above a whisper.
I felt my heart seize up. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to meet him halfway.
But I couldn’t. I froze.
Just before our lips touched, I gently pulled back and looked away.
“Sorry,” I said, barely audible.
He paused for a second, then gave me the softest smile. “It’s OK,” he said without missing a beat. “No pressure, all right? Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.”
And just like that, we moved on. No awkwardness. No pressure. He handled it with such grace that, if anything, I liked him more. It felt like confirmation that he really saw me — not just as someone to conquer, but someone worth being patient with.
But a few days later, the shine started to fade.
We were sitting on the back steps one afternoon when he mentioned, almost in passing, “There’s something I should probably tell you. I have a girlfriend.”
I blinked. “Wait … what?”
“She lives in Germany,” he said, voice quiet. “It’s been four years. We’ve been long-distance for a while. It’s kind of on the rocks, but … we’re still technically together.”
Technically.
I felt the bottom drop out of my chest. My mind scrambled to connect dots, rearranging every sweet moment under this new light.
I tried to process it, but I wasn’t angry — not yet. Just stunned. Numb. I nodded, said something like, “Thanks for telling me,” and excused myself to my room.
But then the nights started to change.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. But after that conversation, the energy in the house shifted. Almost every night, I’d hear new voices. Laughter. Sometimes flirtatious whispers in the hallway. One night, I passed a girl in the kitchen making toast at 1 a.m. in his hoodie. She smiled politely. I didn’t ask questions.
It became a pattern. A different girl, almost every night. He’d meet them on Raya or Tinder. Beautiful, charismatic women, most of them aspiring actors or models. I never heard him brag about it. He wasn’t showy. But it was unmistakable — he was spiraling into something.
And I couldn’t stop watching.
Part of me was devastated, even though I had no claim to him. I’d been imagining a future. I had started to believe he was my soulmate. But this wasn’t what soulmates did. Soulmates didn’t treat people like rotating doors.
Eventually, during one of our rare quiet nights alone, I brought it up.
“Hey,” I said gently. “Are you OK?”
He paused, staring at his hands. Then, with surprising openness, he admitted, “I think I have a problem.”
He explained that sex was like a compulsion for him. That he’d been using it to cope with anxiety, loneliness, the chaos of this city. That it made him feel better — for a moment. But never for long. He looked up at me, eyes raw.
“I’m trying to get a handle on it,” he said. “But it’s hard.”
I sat beside him, silent. Not judging. Just listening.
He wasn’t cruel. Just deeply lost. One of the many people in this city chasing something they couldn’t quite name. He wanted to be loved, just like me. He just didn’t know how to be safe with it.
I was relieved we hadn’t crossed that line. That I’d kept one piece of myself intact. But it also marked something final. The moment I stopped seriously considering dating a man in Los Angeles.
I still love this city. I still take the same walks. Still linger in cafes, hoping for something soft and sincere to cut through the noise. But I don’t fall for fantasies anymore, especially not the kind wrapped in accents and charisma.
The charming, sex-addicted Australian man? He’s still one of my closest friends. We never kissed. We never even talked about it much.
Experiencing romance is without a doubt one of the finer things in life, but it’s not always the most fulfilling. Soulmates show up in many forms, and sometimes the realest love one will experience is with a dog or a family member or a platonic friend and that’s OK. All love is great love.
The author is an actor and writer living in Los Angeles. She grew up in the city, still believes in love (sometimes) and takes too many long walks through Silver Lake and Los Feliz.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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