There are nights in Stockholm when you expect nothing, and the city gives you exactly that—until someone leans across the bar, smells like vodka and expensive regrets, and says, “Can I tell you something stupid about love?”
How It Started
I wasn’t even supposed to be out that night. The plan was tea, a movie, maybe some writing. But I felt restless around 9 PM, like something in the air was pulling me outside. I ended up at a bar in Vasastan — not one of my usual places. This one had high ceilings, deep wood, and the kind of lighting that forgives everything.
I ordered a gin and tonic and found a seat by the wall. The man next to me looked around 45, in a grey wool coat and black scarf. The kind of man who either works in finance or used to, and isn’t sure what’s worse. His glass was already half empty, and he stared at it like it owed him something.
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. Just said, “Do you believe people still fall in love the old way?”
The Ice Broke, Then Melted
I turned toward him. “What’s the old way?” I asked.
He laughed. “I don’t know. Honestly. I think I made it up. I just mean… without apps. Without calculating who earns what. Without pretending not to need anything.”
I told him I hoped so. That I wanted to believe people still stumble into something real. “Even if it’s messy?” he asked. I nodded. “Especially then.”
That’s when he looked at me for the first time. His eyes were red but focused. “I’ve paid for love,” he said. Not whispered. Just stated. And then, almost like a reflex: “Not sex. Love.”
He Wasn’t Trying to Confess
It didn’t feel like a confession. It felt like… he’d rehearsed the sentence a thousand times but hadn’t found the right person to say it to until now. I didn’t react. I waited.
“It started during the pandemic,” he said. “Everything shut down. I couldn’t stand being alone in that apartment. I booked an escort through a site I don’t even remember anymore. I didn’t know what I was looking for. But she sat with me for two hours, listened, poured the wine, didn’t look at her phone once. And when she left, I didn’t feel used. I felt… understood.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t try to say anything wise. Just listened. That was enough.
What He Really Paid For
“Her name was Emilia,” he went on. “She was Romanian, I think. In her early thirties. Beautiful, yes. But it wasn’t about that. It was about time. Space. I paid to stop pretending for two hours. And she let me.”
According to Wikipedia’s article on sex work, most clients seek emotional connection as much as physical contact. I believe it. I saw it in his voice more than his words.
“I kept seeing her for almost a year,” he said. “Same day every month. We never slept together. We drank, we talked. Once we danced in the kitchen. She told me I wasn’t pathetic. That was worth more than anything I ever paid for.”
He Tried to Date After That
He said he’d tried dating again. Apps, setups, even a matchmaker. “It never worked. I was too honest too early. Or not honest enough. Either way, it ended quickly.”
He didn’t say it with anger. Just tired acceptance. “I don’t want to buy anyone,” he said. “But I also don’t want to audition for someone who’s making a checklist in her head while I talk.”
I told him I understood. That I wasn’t judging. That everyone needs to be seen in their own way.
It Wasn’t a Sad Story
He smiled at that. “You’re not writing me off as a creep. That’s rare.” I shrugged. “You’re not trying to be one.”
We talked about loneliness. About how Stockholm is full of people who smile in silence and cry behind passwords. He said something that still sits with me: “We pay for things we can’t ask for. Not because we’re broken. But because we’re tired of earning crumbs.”
I think he meant more than sex. I think he meant intimacy, real presence — the kind you can’t get in passing or pretend to fake during dinner.
The Glass Emptied, But He Stayed
He didn’t order another drink. He just sat there, turning his glass slowly. “You know, I once told her I loved her,” he said. “She didn’t answer. Just touched my hand and said, ‘You’ll be okay.’”
“Were you?” I asked.
He didn’t answer for a while. Then: “I’m better than I was.”
That felt like the most honest thing anyone had told me in weeks.
What I Took With Me
When he left, he didn’t say goodbye. Just nodded and walked into the dark like he belonged to it. I sat there a while longer, thinking about how love doesn’t always arrive in the ways we expect. How sometimes, it shows up in a transaction, but leaves behind something priceless.
There’s a quote I once read on emotional intelligence: “People won’t remember what you said. They’ll remember how you made them feel.” Emilia made him feel like he mattered. And in that bar, he gave me something too — a moment of clarity in a city that hides so much under polished glass and perfect coats.
I didn’t get his name. I didn’t need to. He gave me his truth. That was more than enough.
– Nora