Falling Out Of Love With London

It had been a while since we went on a night out. I bought my first leopard print dress for the occasion. Rarely do I feel comfortable with the glamour in my appearance amplified - hair curled and up, lips lined and dark. Though, I had been listening to music as of late that made my blood pulse with an urge to dance - to feel it in my veins as opposed to just through my earphones.

My sister and I turned to where we once regulared, Liverpool Street. For almost two months, Friday nights were reserved and anticipated for eating Italian food and, soon after, dancing it off at our favourite bar. The staff recognised us and the music never disappointed. Stepping into that same bar with a different array of staff to be served a poorly made virgin mojito, my sister and I soon realised that the distance between our last experience here and the present day was a vast contrast.

It did not take long for us to leave the bar, to emerge the streets once again to find something less disappointing. It is a Friday night, right? I turned to my sister, perplexed by the eerily deserted pavements we were walking through. Where was the Liverpool Street we once knew? The one who would play music for us to dance to until we were sweating and pouring drinks down our dresses and getting kicked out. Most of all, I was disheartened by the sight of so many more citizens lying on the pavement to sleep.

When I hear non-Londoners speak of London, when I watch movies shot on the very streets I speak of and I read of a foreigner's new life in the big city, I know I should feel grateful to live there. I take a look at the tall skyscrapers and the rows of designer shops and theatre performances and I try to adore it the best I can - because how many others would wish to be in my place? Despite the festive winter feeling like a pair of hands tightly gripped on my throat, I think of the amount of money people have spent to see the big tree in Covent Garden that I can pay three pounds and thirty minutes to embrace.

I did love London at one point, I really did. Finding myself having to choose between loathing or befriending my solitude, I chose to hold it by the hand as we shared time in the city - drinking coffee, buying books and trying to keep it together. There was one Parisian café that we returned to over and over. Each time I escaped the chaos of the city streets and emerged through those double doors, my chest felt lighter and my heart more hopeful.

At the start of this year, I began grieving for the café whose double doors remain bolted forever. It is a loss that I still struggle to fathom when I am alone in my house on a Saturday wondering what to do with myself. I have visited those same streets since, I have stepped in other corners of the city - all of it makes me feel so empty. Lonelier than I had ever felt. It makes me wonder if the only reason I ever fell in love with London was because of the peace I felt sitting in that cafe drinking black coffee.

I think we should take a break.

I am sad

and you are insane.

- a love letter to london, Katerina Petrou (2024)

Two years ago, I wrote and self-published a poetry collection titled "a love letter to london". It unveiled my unhealthy infatuation for the city - comparing it to a lover who does not treat me kindly. I used the city to share my grief when it was most raw. To bandage the wounds temporarily with a kiss. To make me feel something. Perhaps I do not adore London the way I once did because those wounds are less raw, because my soul is breathing again. Was I able to finally step away from my abusive lover and see their true colours?

Truthfully, I am not certain of where my home is. It was once so clear, so true and loving. Now it is too far for me to ever reach in this lifetime, so I attempt to find it on Earth. A piece of my heart I had not even met yet was living in Paris, waiting for the whole of me to join them. Departing a recent visit to Greece, I ached with the desire to live in the mountains and by the sea. I felt a bit of peace, surely that is where I belong. Surely, I can find home there.

And, yes, I once longed to live inside the beating pulse of London. I would watch the sun setting on the city from a rooftop, and feel powerful - knowing that I would be okay so long as I had London. Now, I feel empty. My friend whispers beside me, God, I love London. Staring into the cold, lifeless eyes of the city I once adored, I realise that my mind is what I must make a home before any other corner of this planet.

A poem to my dear and distant London:

I quite miss being powerless to you.

It was romantic,

the way you would scoop me in your arms

at the train station,

hold me a little too tight

while I cried and cried

and laughed and

sipped my coffee.

Now I am free.

Sometimes you make me angry

and sometimes I feel absolutely...

nothing for you.

I miss believing you loved me.

Most of all,

I miss loving you.