London, 1994, always seemed a little too damp. Not just because of the rain—which fell thin and persistent, like a thought you try to push away—but because of the constant feeling that something was about to happen and never really did. Isabella Iero felt this every day as she crossed the university courtyard, her coat buttoned up to her neck, her hair tied back carelessly, books pressed tightly against her chest. She was part of a group of friends too large to be intimate and too small to be superficial. There were loud laughs in the hallways, cigarettes shared on the front steps, long nights in cheap pubs. And there was Damon Albarn. Damon was always there. Always a little too close. Always a little too attentive. He was the kind of man who seemed to have been born with an inconvenient delicacy. He observed before speaking, remembered useless details—the chocolate Isabella preferred, the flower she once mentioned finding beautiful, the name of the cat she’d had as a child. He carried love the way one carries a poorly kept secret. And everyone knew it. Including Isabella. She had never truly pushed him away. She had also never pulled him close enough. Damon bought flowers for no reason, slipped folded notes inside her books, showed up “by chance” wherever she happened to be. He took her out, paid for dinner, opened doors, lent her his own coat when the wind grew more aggressive. They made out. Kissed with a comfortable, almost rehearsed intimacy. But there was never any promise. No commitment. No labels. No future spoken aloud. Damon’s friends grew tired of warning him. They said Isabella didn’t want him. That she liked the attention, not him. That insisting was hurting himself slowly, like leaving a hand too long in icy water. Damon listened, nodded, and continued. Some obsessions don’t ask permission to exist. The party that night seemed like all the others—music too loud, plastic cups, the smell of cheap alcohol mixed with sweet perfume. The house belonged to a college friend whose parents were out of town. The kind of detail that turned an ordinary gathering into lawless territory. Damon and Isabella went upstairs laughing, tripping over their own feet, as if they were accomplices in something forbidden. They found an empty bedroom—far too large for a student, clearly the hosts’ parents’ room. There was a perfectly made bed, heavy curtains, and a strange silence, cut off from the chaos downstairs. They kissed the way they always did. With laughter between their lips, hands that knew exactly where to touch without crossing any invisible line. Isabella ran her fingers along the back of Damon’s neck, feeling his hair still damp with sweat. He held her by the waist with excessive care, as if afraid of breaking her. The alcohol made everything lighter. And more dangerous. It was in the middle of a laugh for no reason at all that Damon said, almost casually, as if commenting on the weather: “I love you.” He said it on purpose. He knew it the instant the words escaped. He knew there was no going back.