Chapter Six: Good On Paper

Brighton first crossed our paths; Good On Paper and I didn’t start our chapter until much later, when the party glow had faded and I was learning how to tend my own light. By the time the light had returned, I wanted steadiness.

When I first went to Georgia Tech to study computer science, I was exposed to so many new things. But the most impactful was dance music — electronic music, to be precise. One day a classmate on my floor, also studying computer science, was playing something in his dorm room. I asked, “What’s this?” Up until then I’d only ever listened to Top 40 pop radio. I’ve always had eclectic taste, but this — this was different. The music moved something in me.

I’ve long had a theory that music is a kind of programming language for people: it shapes emotion, shifts you from happy to sad, to thoughtful, to laughing. Just a few notes can summon a memory like a time-travel device. Hearing that music felt like my own code was being rewritten — each beat a new line compiling joy. I started listening to online dance-music stations like Digitally Imported while coding or grading projects as a teaching assistant. It became my focus loop — steady beats syncing my heartbeat to flow state.

Over the years I kept that habit, never realizing it meant more than background noise. Before Brighton — before the cruise — I’d never liked the idea of dancing among people. I was too shy. But afterwards I realized there’s a special joy in sharing music; rhythm can be communion.

Not long after meeting Good On Paper, I discovered that one of the artists I’d been listening to all along was Above & Beyond. In my new practice of saying yes to life, I decided to see them live. Browsing for tour dates, I noticed we both followed them. That coincidence felt like a Shimmer nudge. A few months later I messaged him: “There’s an event in London — want to go?” He said yes. He was coming up from Devon and needed a place to stay, so I offered my spare room — no expectations, just shared music.

That night was electric — a shared pulse, the kind of flow that bypasses words. We saw a lineup from Above & Beyond’s label, Anjunabeats, at Brixton Academy. After that, visits turned into weekends, weekends into something more. I began traveling to Devon; he came to London. Eventually I asked, “Do you want to give this a go?”

I’d never been one for long-distance relationships, but sharing that music felt electric. We liked the same shows, the same games, even the same quiet humor. He was warm, grounded — a balance to my intensity. Looking back, I realize I saw him as the perfect checklist match. Good chemistry, shared interests, steady temperament: the classic good-on-paper profile.

Six months later we were alternating weekends — Devon to London, London to Devon. Being apart was hard. I liked him, really liked him. So I invited him to move to London. He did. He left his teaching job, came north, and began looking for work. Around the same time I left my own role to join Google, and between jobs we took a three-month trip around the world. The Shimmer’s fingerprints were everywhere — timelines dovetailing perfectly.

I didn’t see the cracks at first. I enjoyed the trip, but I noticed he didn’t seem to enjoy it quite as much. We both smiled through moments of friction, convincing ourselves everything should work. The Shimmer had woven us together, but sometimes even perfect timing can’t fix mismatched tuning.

I’ve learned since that communication is oxygen in a relationship, but even oxygen can’t fix Alignment. There has to be something deeper — a heart-level resonance. And in truth, that wasn’t there. At the time I couldn’t recognize it, because I’d never felt true heart Alignment before.

We were compatible by résumé — shared hobbies, humor, routines. But compatibility isn’t Coherence. Coherence is when you can tell the truth without bracing for impact, when you don’t monitor your volume or shrink a feeling just to keep the peace. With him, I edited myself in tiny, invisible ways until the edits became erasure. We had goodness without the click — a relationship that worked on paper but cost me pieces of myself to maintain. I suspect he felt the same, but neither of us wanted to face that truth openly.

We both sensed the wobble beneath our feet, and that insecurity fed the very disconnection we feared. Fights multiplied. I started wondering, What could make this better? He was such a good man — I wanted to fix it. So I thought: Maybe if we get married, things will settle. Maybe commitment will calm the chaos.

We did. On the morning of our wedding, we argued. Part of me whispered, Is this right? But I pushed through — stubborn as ever — believing growth could come from this new stability. Afterwards, for a little while, things did seem better. But only briefly. The hollow came back. I was unfulfilled. Something was missing, and no amount of logic could silence that knowing. When your body and heart are misaligned, your mind can narrate excuses, but your heart keeps knocking until you open the door.

I kept ignoring it — again and again. But the Shimmer had other plans.