Beyond Romance

I haven’t had much incentive to change my life except for love. After moving out of my parents’ home and gaining autonomy over how I lived, most directions in life felt the same—flat, interchangeable, unremarkable. It was only through attachment to someone that a clearer sense of direction would emerge.

So when the opportunity came, I left my old, stagnant life without much hesitation. The new life was not easy: adapting to a new city, a new dialect, new habits, and a new family structure. It was the first time I had moved beyond both workplace and hometown in a real way, and the scale of freedom felt unfamiliar. It gave me space to explore, but not a new identity.

I believed that if I could resolve my love life, a kind of “happily ever after” would naturally follow. As long as I was with my chosen family, I thought anywhere could become home.

No. And no.

First, I cannot sort out my love life on my own. No matter how hard I try, explanation does not always lead to understanding.

Yesterday we had a mild quarrel that began with travel plans and shifted into how we want to live. I wasn't okay with staying in Guangdong forever, and when I mentioned the idea of moving back to Shanghai—hopefully together—it was taken as an offense. She thought I was being unrealistic because she could not afford that life yet, and that imagining an ideal future meant I was deeply dissatisfied with the present one.

I fell silent, with quiet grief. It felt like whatever gave me hope was experienced as pressure or critique. And I realized again that no amount of proximity or explanation can guarantee understanding between two people whose internal worlds are different.

Then something else became clear. I had started to pay more attention to what I actually want in life—not as someone in love, but as a human being. I was no longer treating “whatever keeps the relationship alive” as the highest priority.

Not everywhere works. Not every life is interchangeable.

I have needs. I have preferences.

I need a city that nourishes me, not one that drains me. I need a climate that my body can live in, not one that leaves it struggling with heat, humidity, mosquito bites, and exhaustion. I need connection to a wider world beyond my immediate environment, something intellectually alive and expansive. I need time and space to read, think, and write. I need a stable home that feels inhabitable and grounded—one that does not require constant adaptation, one temporary arrangement after another.

I thought knowing myself and my partner more would lead to a better relationship, and therefore a better life—whatever form that might take.

And because understanding two people already felt like enough work, alongside building a new life in a kind of vacuum period, I thought that was it. That this was the great climb. I must have been close to the summit.

How wrong I was.

What I thought was the end was only the beginning. Knowing myself and my partner did not resolve life—it revealed how far I still have to travel toward a life that actually fits me, and how each person’s path is ultimately solitary.

Our paths may cross, but the question remains:

What do I want in life? How do I get there? How much further is it?

At least now I have a compass.

Welcome to my new age.