“How’s London treating you?” People that Naush had parted ways with always asked.

He often didn’t know how to answer, so his response was usually a variegated combination of caprcious weather, interesting people, and an unfair comparison to the country he just fled. He always ended by guessing that London was objectively great.

But he’d never know if London was objectively great; he could only experience a city as he lived through its crossroads, passing bodies, and the screech of the underground tracks. He could only subjectively evaluate London, and he found himself at a loss of words.

The city had given him things. There was the ginormous paella from the bustling Borough Market that his overjoyed mom gawked at, which cheered him up more than he realized. There was the Bob Marley tribute concert next to the Thames where his family drunkenly yet merrily swayed to their first outdoor concert in a decade. And then there was the Airbnb backyard where he had an argument with the very same people and uttered something he shouldn’t have.

There was an overpriced creamy bun he got on his birthday that he silently devoured while listening to Agnes Obel and people-watching in the middle of Victoria Park. There was the low sitting sofa where he sunk in as he got yet another job rejection while his friends bursted into a laughter over his jokes. There was the front door where a guy he thought he’d date rushed out and never came back. There was a Switch console that his friend would probably never let him touch again because of how many times he’d left her to fight the monsters alone by dying too soon. There was a compliment on his old sweater that he thought was the plainest piece he’d ever owned. There was also the Lotus biscuit cheesecake from a beigel shop that he used to share with someone he cared for but couldn’t talk to anymore.

Oh, and there was a nightstand lamp that witnessed him writing two short pieces and a bad poem on his blog.

So how was London as a place? He could only tell by conjuring up these objects, faces, words, sounds, and smells, but the difficulties of giving an answer lied in their lack of coherence and a catchy theme. There was no theme that he could give to his life and, therefore, no words to ascribe to the place where his life was still unfolding.