I came to Bali to see something through. I came to see where you live, and how and why you live there. And I can see now exactly why. The unapologetic, surprising, chaotic beauty of it. The oddly comforting and sensual smell of rice burning in the fields, a natural Palo Santo. I came to Bali to get to the heart of something.
I wrote this two years ago in a goodbye letter to my ex, B. I was wearing turquoise pyjama pants and necking an orange Bintang at the Denpasar airport, waiting to board a red eye to escape the island on which I had tried and failed to imagine our shared future. I was doing my best to be brave, but it’s hard to be brave in balloon pants.
Reader, how far would you go, metaphorically and otherwise, for love?
Now, I wait nervously in my bedroom for B to enter the Zoom. I’m wearing a white t-shirt and my hair is undone in a (massive) effort to look like I haven’t made any effort. I try to fix my face into an expression that says: I’m not nervous to interview my ex. I haven’t thought about your face once over the years. Not once.
It began as innocently as any car crash. I sent B a rose on Hinge, and then we met in a bookstore in Holland Park. We had a stubborn romanticism to us from the start despite the wasteland of the digital dating age. I knew that B lived in Bali when I met him because his location was listed, quite clearly, as London/Bali. But I thought the slash indicated more of a part-time thing, like a summer internship. I also thought it wasn’t a big deal, because history told me I wasn’t going to like my Hinge match much anyway. Boy, was I wrong.
We moved fast. I went to the South of France with him and his family in week two. Week three, he moved into my flat in London. And by week four, it was time to discuss Bali as a plausible place for us both to live. It had an Eat, Pray, Love vibe to it, but we forgot to pray. Our 3-month whirlwind romance ended in Canggu with B reading an infamous iPhone note I call “The List” that contained a rather exhaustive account of the things I’d done that had upset him. He read it aloud to me, shirtless. His bronzed skin reflected on the surface of his pool like a marble statue. Impenetrable, set in stone.
I’ve long neatly delegated men into two camps: The ones who rock you to sleep, and the ones who rock your world on its axis. B was the latter. B was funny. B was charming. B made me melt. And then B broke my heart into bullet points. I was hurt and reeling. I didn’t stay to talk it through, or hear his side. I fled. And by the time I penned my ten-page goodbye letter with Shakespearean levels of drama, I was sure there wasn’t enough aloe vera in England to heal my burns.
The familiar outline of his jawline appears on screen. His dark hair is still perfectly coiffed and a little shorter. The same wide, unmistakable smile.
2 years later, have we learned anything?