I recently went to a farewell party for someone I love. They’re embarking on new adventures that will take them across the world, and I said goodbye with a sense that we won’t see each other again.

I left the party feeling a weight in my heart but also joy for this person I care so much about. They’re doing something that takes courage - going into the unknown - because it’s what they need and want. With this weird kind of heartache in me, I decided to take the long way home.

London was dark, lights gleaming, not as busy as you might expect on a Friday night. It was the kind of night where you feel both invisible and the centre of the world. In part, this is the anonymity that London creates. The way the city moves, the way it’s structured, encourages a type of self-absorption that means many people who live here constantly seek escape, and people like me, with the city in their veins, walk faster than is ever necessary. We fly past each other, night-time strangers, and we rarely remember faces, and we become invisible.

And yet, it’s London, and most importantly, it’s London at night. Suddenly, you’re the only one taking time to really see the city. Suddenly, you become important, significant, special. You’re acutely aware of how vital you are to your own narrative.

I love London. It’s a city that fits me. The indulgent narcissism of rush hour makes me giggle. The haphazard weather helps me to feel connected to nature amongst noise pollution and straight-up pollution. I’ve spent my whole life in cities. In London, nobody makes small talk with strangers, but community here is easy, and it’s more meaningful like that.

I love London. But London at night is a unique entity. It is eccentricity, as we feel the erratic electricity in the air and in the concrete and in every light that shines. And there are many lights. The lights in London are like no other. They are safe, they are home, they are a beacon. And they’re a reminder that most of this city is hidden. When you walk London at night, you always feel on the cusp of extraordinary, everyday magic.

After saying my goodbyes, then, I spent some time in London at night, and I felt connected to my city in a way that I’ve rarely ever felt. As I walked through Soho and Chinatown and Trafalgar Square and beyond, memories laid themselves over this city like film transparencies, building up and overlapping.

Panic attacks in Trafalgar Square, a kiss goodbye outside Waterloo station, sitting by St Martin-in-the-Fields after a protest, and a descent into the Crypt with the only other person I know who loves this city the same way I do. An awkward excursion to the National Gallery, and my first visit there, where I tried to find all the paintings with cats in them. Graduation on the South Bank, and Lunar New Year festivities, and eating bubble waffles with yet another friend who doesn’t live here any more. And all of the walks that I’ve made alone through my city; here I am lingering on Waterloo Bridge heartbreak after heartbreak, and here I am going to my favourite used bookshop, and here I am after that tattoo, and here I am heading home, tipsy and euphoric and tired from dancing.

All of these memories live in this city, each with the emotions married to them, new and old: nostalgia, joy, sadness, comfort, mirth, pride. Every landmark and grey street corner makes me feel heavy and ethereal and translucent. I’m not quite here and I’ve never felt so grounded.

This is the first time I’ve felt a solid sense of personal history in a place. I realise that I’ve lived most of my life here. Not simply in terms of years, which has always felt like an arbitrary measurement. I mean I have lived here. I’ve shared my most important relationships here, I have experienced my biggest joys and successes and heartbreaks, and I have been shaped by this city, maybe even in ways I can’t see.

I feel so grounded and I feel so alone. These memories and the party and the goodbyes remind me of how many people have come and gone. And I know this isn’t something that ever stops, particularly in a city like London, a city too expensive and fast and vital to allow many people to stay long-term.

And I feel free. London is a city of transience which makes some people feel lost or harassed, but transience is my nature. It’s in my blood and it’s in my nerves. It’s been the reason for heartache in my life, and it’s been the only thing keeping me alive.

So I walk under London’s night lights, and Polaris shines overhead, and I see the same cityscape that captivated me as a child, the city that has always been home regardless of how far I’ve travelled. As I walk, I know that life moves on and we are required to let it, whether we feel like we can or not. Life moves on and sometimes it feels bittersweet, sometimes it feels sad, sometimes it’s unbearable and there’s no way we can take it, but then we do. I feel heavy and untethered but mostly, I am reminded that I am here, a ghost in a transient city, at once meaningless and the centre of the world.

Heavy Machinery is written by Zainabb Hull and powered by neon.
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