My Most Serious Relationship Was With a City

Laura Mahecha

11 hours ago

5 min read

Five-year-old me was up to something when she watched Peter Pan (2003) for the first time and thought moving to London was the key to eternal happiness. Twelve-year-old me had such a huge crush on One Direction that she wrote collaborative fanfiction with her friends about them moving to London and having the members fall head over heels for them. Eighteen-year-old me packed up her clothes in a 23kg bag, said goodbye to everything and everyone she knew, and hopped on a plane that would take her 5,032 miles away from the only place she used to call home.

If we ignore how it was mostly men who partly drove me to this decision, London had been my long-term crush for years, and although I didn’t get to bring my friends with me, I unlocked what can be considered the best version of myself (and bumped into Niall Horan in the street. He didn’t fall in love with me, though).

So, by December 2025, 26-year-old me started to emotionally process that she had a month left to pack up the past eight years of her life and, once again, leave everything and everyone she knew behind, including a piece of herself.

My relationship with London is what I call the healthiest toxic relationship a woman could have. I learned about its problematic grey skies: sometimes there was sun, five minutes later it was gone; and if there is sun, don’t let it trick you, you can still freeze to death. Too much for a Colombian girl to handle, let alone one from the Caribbean region. But this dilemma was perfect for making jokes at work: London’s weather is like men, unpredictable; one day they love-bomb you, then ghost you the next.

And, like in most relationships, there were comfort places. There was that Japanese café close to the station I would go to whenever I wanted to be anywhere but home but didn’t want to go too far. I tried matcha there for the first time, too. Then there was the local shawarma place that had the best meal deals for less than £7 and whose staff always greeted me with smiles and hugs (and free bread) because that’s how often I ate there. And an unexpected one: my workplace.

My time in London is divided into three different stages: Stage 1, The Talking Stage, which took place during my first three years. It wasn’t only about starting my uni life, but also going on nights out, making bad decisions, experiencing firsts, anything that gives you the adrenaline and excitement of starting what sounds like something promising. Stage 2, ‘We Were on a Break!’, the pandemic that made me pause the life I was just starting to know, excited to experience my early twenties. And Stage 3, ‘What Are We?’, the heartbreak.

Things started to make sense. After the break phase, I rediscovered myself; I knew what I wanted and what I didn’t, and I was open to trying new things. This openness made London open itself up to me, too. We were back on track, and this is when this new workplace came in.

I got a job in a bookshop in South London, which entailed a new routine and new colleagues. My first day made me feel like a new character in the third season of a sitcom, and yet I felt so incredibly welcomed. What I thought would be a temporary job of three weeks during the Christmas season turned into a year.

The 25-minute bus journey became one of my favourite moments of the day, spent people-watching while the sky was still hazy in the morning and gloomy on my way back after my shifts. At work, all of us around the same age, and even our grumpy 50-something-year-old colleague whose backstory is still a mystery to us, became family. I started saying yes to almost everything, an experience, a new hang-out spot, and they all led me to new friends. London and I were synchronised, and when things work out, you want them to last, so you become more persistent.

The visa situation constantly haunted the back of my mind, a reminder that everything was temporary. After finding my place and getting excited about what could come next in this life I had grown comfortable in, I couldn’t simply give up. So, after months of waiting for response emails (‘Why haven’t they texted me back?’), I sorted it out: I started a Master’s degree and came back to the life I had known throughout my early to mid-twenties.

However, this time felt different. I took an extra minute to watch the River Thames from Waterloo Bridge, walked slower around Hyde Park, chose a bus journey rather than the Tube and took more pictures. I spent my last six months in London taking in every second with a heavy heart while juggling a Master’s dissertation, work at the bookshop and trying to find a sponsored job, because that’s how stubborn you get when you settle into something that gives you a sense of stability.

Isn’t love fighting for something that is meaningful to you? But how long can someone fight? When do they know it’s the right time to let go? Realistically, I had no choice, but with the odds against me and completely out of my control (rules are rules), how can someone emotionally process something they know is coming?

And I think love is like that: you yearn for it, you jump right at it when given the chance, you give your best and, if it’s meant for you, that’s it. But while you love, you learn, and that’s the best way to give your best.

When I was eighteen, I was shy, compliant, dependent on others and hesitant to take initiative. London is chaotic; it doesn’t wait for you. When it’s sunny, you have to be outside, otherwise it feels like you’re wasting your time being unproductive. It gives you a headache just thinking about commuting home because TfL loves playing tricks on people.

But at twenty-six, I’m more outspoken, autonomous and proactive, and I look back at TfL fondly because, despite all the strikes, scheduling issues and sweaty armpits in my face, I never had to wait more than 10 minutes for a Tube. I commuted to my favourite places, saw groups of friends enjoying life together, and I was always reminded to mind the gap between the train and the platform.

In the process of loving this city, I learned to love what I’ve become.