A Scientist, A Journalist, And the Art of Falling
Love and journalism, two worlds colliding in the quiet of London. A connection years in the making, now a leap into the unknown, unplanned but profound.
In the quiet hum of my London flat, with the soft patter of raindrops against the window, I find myself drifting back to the rhythm of life that once consumed me: the erratic, intoxicating dance of love and journalism. For so long, my stories were of war zones and conflict, the kind of battles where bullets fly and lives are shattered. But there’s another battlefield I’ve long wandered—one far more personal, far more intimate. It’s the space between hearts, the tentative steps we take toward another, hoping, yet fearing, that they might just take our hand.
Dear reader, if you’ve been with me on this journey, you know that I once shared the unfolding chapters of my dating life here, amidst my stories of London, my musings about the world. But then, as with many things, life took over. War called, deadlines loomed, and I found myself far from the warmth of personal reflection. The Nagorno-Karabakh conflict, Ukraine—it all became a blur of assignments, of heartbreak that wasn’t mine, but theirs, the people I documented. Yet here I am, back in this space, with a story of a different kind of battle. The one where I didn’t just observe but dared to step into the fray.
There’s someone. Isn’t there always? But this one… this one is different. They’re not just a name or a face that flashed across my screen as I scrolled through some app on another restless night. No, we’ve known each other for years now, our connection growing slowly, a kind of friendship that never quite knew its name. There was a depth to our conversations, but also a lightness. No pressure, no expectations—just two people, slowly, quietly learning one another.
I remember the first time we met in person, the way the world seemed to tilt just slightly. It wasn’t the grand, movie-script moment you might imagine. There were no fireworks or sudden bursts of clarity. Instead, it was more like slipping into something comfortable, something that fit. We laughed, we talked, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized: this wasn’t just friendship anymore. There’s a word for what it’s becoming, but I’ll hold back from saying it. After all, they might be reading this, and some things are better left unsaid—for now.
What I will say is this: they’ve changed me. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say they’ve awakened something in me that had been dormant for so long. I’ve always been curious about people—that’s why I became a journalist. But this person… they remind me why I’m not just curious, but hopeful. They make me want to do more, to be more—not just for them, but for the world.
There’s a beauty in how they think, how they approach the world with a scientist’s mind, always searching for answers, always seeking to improve life for others. It’s funny, isn’t it? How two people can be drawn to such different careers—science and journalism—but at the core of both is the same drive: to make the world a little better. That’s what they do for me, simply by being themselves. And maybe, just maybe, I do that for them, too.
But, of course, life is rarely so simple. There are hesitations—small, almost imperceptible, but there. We haven’t had enough time together yet, not enough to truly see if what we’ve started can stand the test of reality. There are times when I think I see a flicker of doubt in their eyes, and I wonder if I’m imagining it, or if they, too, are unsure. But even in that uncertainty, I find hope. Because isn’t that what life is? A series of unplanned, unpredictable moments where you’re forced to decide: do I leap or do I stay safely on the ground?
I didn’t plan this. I didn’t plan to meet someone who would make me question everything, to feel so boldly about a future I hadn’t even considered. But here I am, standing at the edge, ready to leap. And whether this story becomes a long, beautiful chapter or just a brief, bright moment, I’ll be grateful for it.
I think that’s the hardest lesson I’ve learned in all these years of love and loss—that sometimes, even the ones that don’t last forever are worth it. The ones who leave, who don’t love you back the way you hoped, they still shape you. They still matter. And the ones who stay? Well, they matter even more.
I’ve always tried to be honest in love. When it wasn’t right, I let go. When they weren’t the one, I walked away, even when it hurt. I’ve seen too many people cling to something broken because they’re afraid of the loneliness that comes after. But I’ve never been afraid of solitude. What I’ve feared, more than anything, is losing the respect, the care, the kindness that comes with real love. The kind that says: I see you, truly, and I accept you, flaws and all. That’s what I want, and that’s what I hope to give.
So here I am, on the brink of something new. Something beautiful, something that could change everything—or maybe just a little. I don’t know yet. But what I do know is that I’m ready. Ready to see what comes next. Ready to hold their hand, and walk whatever path lies ahead of us—together, or apart, as life decides.
And to you, dear reader, thank you for being here with me on this journey. For caring about the stories I tell, whether they’re about faraway conflicts or the quiet, personal battles of the heart. I hope, in some way, they’ve resonated with you, because in the end, that’s what we all want, isn’t it? To be seen, to be understood, to know that our stories matter.
So I leave you with this: whatever you do, wherever you are, love deeply. Even if it hurts, even if it doesn’t last. Because in the end, that’s what makes life worth living—the people we love, the stories we share, and the memories we leave behind.
Until next time, dear reader. Be kind to yourselves, and to each other.
COVER Photo: A boat punter gently glides along the River Cam, guiding passengers through the peaceful waters on a quiet Sunday, June 26, 2022, in Cambridge. In this iconic British university town, punting is more than a pastime—it’s a moment of connection with the past, a tradition shared between friends and strangers alike, much like the unexpected journeys that bring people together. (VX Photo/Vudi Xhymshiti)