“The spark” isn’t what you think it is

You’re craving context, not chemistry

If I could write a PhD, it would be on extraordinary love stories. Ever since I was a child, romantic tales fed my imagination more than anything else. As a four-year-old, I held a plastic goat figurine in each hand and said, “You may lick the bride.” Aged fourteen, I would religiously watch Moulin Rouge every weekend and fall asleep to scenes from Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet playing on my iPod Nano. The biggest writing break I’ve ever had was being published in the New York Times Modern Love column – a true story that was only possible because of my romantic tendencies.

In the face of disappointments and betrayals and heartbreaks – I’ve been single for six years – I have always maintained a steadfast belief in “the spark.” In fictional romances, you can see it fizzing between people. Satine and Christian from Moulin Rouge, gazing into each other’s eyes on top of the red elephant. Celine and Jesse from Before Sunrise, as soon as they lock eyes on that train bound for Paris. If I think of one of my own greatest love stories – the one that was published in The New York Times – onlookers probably could have seen it too, as two strangers reconnected over spaghetti and spritzes in a trattoria in Rome.

If it’s not this kind of love, I don’t want it – Before Sunrise

These love stories all have a big commonality – context. If Satine and Christian had matched on Hinge and gone for pints at a pub after work, would their “spark” be the same? If Celine and Jesse spotted each other on their daily commute, not on on train far from home, would they have spoken? If my Italian man and I had been in the same East London bar, would we have ventured from our friends to connect?

Part of what makes those love stories remarkable is the contexts in which they took place. Because your heart is more open to love when you’re a couple of spritzes down, sunburnt in a square in Italy. But also, a relationship can preserve who you were in that moment. You see it in the sequel of Celine and Jesse’s love story, Before Sunset – the lovers still lost in the magic of meeting all those years ago. Seeing each other again compresses time, turning them back into the young, carefree people who were willing to walk around a city all night just to talk and fall in love.

Of course, extraordinary love stories unfold in more mundane places too. People feel “the spark” in grey, fluorescent-lit offices, in cramped basement parties, on dating app dates that both parties nearly cancelled because they were violently hungover. But I think that’s actually just a different facet of context – willingness. It seems blatantly obvious, but you both have to want it, whole-heartedly. And that’s the tough part. Because I don’t think it’s just about chemistry – you may laugh easily with someone, and like kissing them more than anyone else, and feel vividly alive in their presence, and yet they still don’t want the same level of intimacy that you do. And that difference in wanting is enough to keep you apart – if you’re sensible (I am often not).

I’m beginning to broaden my belief in this mystical spark. I used to think it was something either you had instantly or you didn’t. It was inexplicable, immovable, irreplaceable – inherent chemistry between two people who were destined to meet. But now, I think it’s more about context. It could be a magical circumstance, or an improbable chance. But it could also look like two people who are ready. And I don’t mean it in the bullshit sense of being completely healed, or the best version of yourself. Despite what people in relationships relish in saying: “Maybe you’re still single because you don’t really love yourself?” I just mean open-minded and open-hearted. Are you willing to put curiosity before caution?

The scene from Romeo + Juliet I had on my iPod Nano

Of course, it’s not easy to be open and lean all the way in. You might be curious about certain aspects of someone – say, what it would be like to spend the night together. But perhaps you’re not yet willing to unravel the inner workings of their mind. Or you’re open-hearted, but your mind interrupts with “what if’s” that are based on past hurt. Or maybe, you know that it’s time to move on. But your heart hasn’t caught up yet. And this isn’t even touching on all the other things that occupy space in our minds and hearts – family and jobs and travel and future plans and where we want to live. The endless barrage of hope and fear that bounces around in our bodies.

I used to believe in the adage, “If they wanted to, they would.” But now I think it’s more like, “If they’re open-hearted, and open-minded, and curious, and not too cautious, then, maybe, they might. Or they still might not.” And when you phrase it like that, being single can be reframed – it’s finding a great love that’s really the anomaly.

Redefining “the spark” also helps immensely in the face of unrequited romance. Someone’s feelings not matching my own should not denote my worth. But when you like someone, and they don’t like you in quite the same way, it’s hard to remember that. If you add context into the equation, it’s a soothing thought. It’s not right person, wrong timing. You’re actually just a different person to them than you are to yourself. Without the correct context, they can’t see you clearly. That’s not a reason to stay – you can’t change their lack of vision. But it’s also not a reason to spiral about your self-worth.

When you realise your life philosophy is from Moulin Rouge

I think my theory also explains why I’ve had so many romantic highs and lows – especially when other friends haven’t. It’s not a character flaw; the context I live in is just inherently romantic. I was marrying four-legged-animals as a toddler; I never had any hope. And it’s meant that I have had a lot of heartbreak, but also so many magical moments with lovers that I wouldn’t trade for the world. I am always open to getting swept up in magical circumstances, and seeing the greatest potential in the people I meet. I just love to love.

Sometimes, I wonder if that little girl with the goats would be disappointed that I’m thirty-one and single. But as my Dad kindly put it the other day, “You’ve had a lot of love. Just not a forever partner. Yet.” So in a way, I think that she’d be quite proud. The girl who loved watching love stories has become the woman writing her own. And I still have – with the right context – at least one more heading my way.