As I try to untangle myself from him, I catch a trace of his scent, clean and musky, and suddenly realize, with a rush of embarrassment, that I can feel every inch of his body pressed against mine.
He’s solid, warm… and kind of hard to ignore.
Not exactly the ideal way to meet someone, but there’s something weirdly endearing about the whole situation.
He’s blushing now, clearly mortified. He runs a hand over his face like he’s trying to disappear behind it, then lets it drop, and from this close, I notice golden flecks in his hazel eyes.
Little sparks of colour that catch the light when he’s flustered.
And finally, he finds his voice.
“I’m so sorry, Sebastian… I don’t know what I, how I, God, are you okay? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you. I can’t believe I was that stupid.”
He shakes his head, clearly spiralling, and I realize I need to step in before he talks himself into a meltdown.
I’ve always thought of myself as the sensitive one, but it turns out I’m not the only one with a flair for overreacting.
As I get to my feet, I keep my tone light and calm, even though I’m struggling not to smile. This is, without a doubt, the most dramatic welcome I’ve ever had.
“Don’t worry, Remi, really. I’m fine, it was my fault. I lost my balance and fell into you. I just hopeyou’realright.”
“No, no, it was me. I pulled your arm too hard… I’m so sorry. I’m fine, though, really.”
I offer him my hand. He hesitates for a second, probably wondering whether I’ve got the upper body strength to be of any use, but then he takes it, and we both get to our feet.
He brushes himself off, mutters a quick thank-you, and looks at me for a moment longer than expected.
There’s a flicker of awkwardness in his expression, like he’s still recalibrating.
But then, slowly, he seems to pull himself together.
He gives me a small, polite smile and finally slips into host mode.
“Come on, Sebastian, I’ll show you around the flat and take you to the guest room. You must be tired after the trip.”
“Not really,” I admit, still slightly breathless. “I’m too excited to be back in London. I’ve missed this city so much. Paris is beautiful and I love France, but England… it’s home.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything. Still a little stiff, but no longer flustered.
We walk through the flat together. It’s small, but the view is stunning.
The open-plan kitchen and living room look out over Shaftesbury Avenue, and from the big bay windows you can see the theatre signs lining the street, glowing softly in the evening light.
A rush of anticipation rises in me. I can’t wait to see a show.
There’s something magical about theatre in London.
No matter what kind of play or musical you’re watching, it always feels like a shared ritual.
Something open. Inviting. For everyone.
It’s not exclusive, the way it can be elsewhere, or the way classical music often ends up being. Here, theatre feels inclusive. Joyful. And somehow, that just makes it more meaningful.
When I’m on stage, performing, I know I’m playing for a very specific audience, people who know classical music, who come with expectations. And I’m grateful, of course. They’re the reason I get to do what I love.
But sometimes I wish I could share music with more people.
With those who might never think of going to a concert hall.
