46: Fondre

My lover and I have moved in together, into a house just three minutes from the High Street. It’s a beautiful house, I must mention. The doors are Victorian, part-glazed, and shining white.

My lover and I have moved in together, into a house just three minutes from the High Street. It’s a beautiful house, I must mention. The doors are Victorian, part-glazed, and shining white. If we hadn’t met the previous occupants—an old couple who had just sold all their property to travel the world—I would have thought the house was a new build.

We moved in on Tuesday, and like it does every day in London, it rained. Huddled under a useless black umbrella, we waited for the couple to finally hand us the keys and bid us farewell, which they did rather gracefully.

Inside the house—filled with the scent of lemon tea—we walked to the room that is now ours. In the corner, resting against the wall, was the most magnificent mirror. It reminded me of those TikTok videos showing infinity pools where you can’t quite place the beginning or the end. Although I could see the obvious edges of this mirror, that’s exactly how it felt looking at it—endless. My lover edged forward and stood beside me. I could feel her head on my shoulder, her breath on the side of my neck, and her hand by my side. But in the mirror, she was absent. The two of us stood before it, yet I alone stared back at myself in shock.

I turned to her and asked, "Where are you in the mirror?" Melted.

Fondre: to melt

Earlier this morning, I learned that to love someone is to learn them—how they smile, how they like their coffee, what book they are more likely to buy in a bookstore. But my fear is that in learning, we become. In learning this person—how they eat, how they smile, how they make their noodles with big rings of onions, six pieces of ata rodo (they’re from Ibadan), and one egg with plantain—how they make their tea: do they put the milk before the sugar, or the sugar before the milk? Or do they use honey?

In loving this person, we learn them. And learning someone is beautiful, but there’s a fear that comes with learning in general—that we become what we learn. An inordinate amount of time spent fixated on this person, the subject of your love, can result in you starting to look like what you’re beholding.

So you begin to make your tea with the milk before the sugar, you begin to fry your noodles in sunflower oil, and you find yourself actually liking strawberries. And some of this is good—romantic even. You get strawberries in the store, and the man beside you smiles and says, "Oh no, you got the last one," and you smile back and say, "Sorry, my boyfriend loves this particular one." And as you walk away, you realise: so do I. You can’t even remember what berry you used to buy before you met him. Raspberry? Blueberry? It doesn’t matter anymore.

But my fear is the other side of this: the part where you melt away. Or, to be more forgiving, you melt into your lover, and now we can’t find you when we look in the mirror.

I want to melt too. I want to melt into someone and watch them melt into me. But I still long for a continuous existence of myself, my person. I think it is good fortune to have loved and to have been loved. As someone who doesn’t melt enough, I wonder what is on the other side of a complete meltdown. What happens if you no longer have your own way of making noodles? And you no longer have your way of smiling? Or making tea?

What happens when you invite folks for tea, and you say, "You know, that’s actually how my wife makes tea." And the little Spanish girl in the corner asks, "How do you like to make tea?" And you say, "You know, I don’t really know. I guess the way my wife makes it?" And the table laughs because that’s what people do at tables like this.

But when the sun has set and you’re clearing the teacups and doing the dishes, you think about it. And you wonder, How do I make tea? What kind of books do I actually like? What kind of movies do I enjoy? What part of me is core me—singularly me—and not another version of my partner that I’ve stolen or extracted?

And so this makes me wonder—when you stand beside your partner before the ornate mirror and you no longer see yourself, is it still romance, or is it a loss of self? How much of melting into one another is too much? How much is not enough? Is it worth it to fight against learning that leads to becoming? Or is that what learning is meant to do? Is there an acceptable level and an unacceptable level? Are there limits?

Is it like driving a car, where 10 km/h is too slow but 100 km/h is too fast? If there are limits and it’s indeed like driving a car, what are the speed limits? Who sets them? Where are they on the road? Do they change over time, or are they static?

These are the questions on my mind when I think about love, about loving, and about giving in to love. I think about surrender and vulnerability, but more recently, I’ve been thinking about this loss of individuality—especially for those who experience it. And I’ve wondered, What happens when you stand beside your lover in front of the ornate mirror, and there’s only one person staring back? When two have truly become one? What do you do?

I need answers.

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This is a thank-you note for the last post I made. Two hundred of you liked it. Thirty-four comments. Over fifty people thought to share it so others could find it. I think that’s incredible. The world is so noisy, and every moment we take to share something we love is not just a moment of enjoyment—it’s an act of generosity. A way of extending beauty to someone else. Thank you for always extending the privilege of reading this newsletter to your loved ones. Happy reading, happy sharing, happy loving, happy melting—but not too much. Okay now, bye guys. Thank you :)

PS: This writing was inspired by

Carina

piece: To be loved is to be known