You, Again

by Kate Goldbeck

“I was supposed to be her muse,” she says, her voice drained of all levity. “That sounds very convenient for her but you’re not her love interest. You’re not the character without a personality who only exists to make someone else seem desirable.” Josh picks up his soup spoon. “That’s not you.”

Right now, “just friends” is a comfortable certainty. A gravity blanket. A subtle vanilla-scented candle. And the alternative is a giant blinking cursor and a blank document. Sometimes it feels like Josh has already been poking around that page. Writing passages and deleting them before she’s ready to open it.

This goes wrong one hundred percent of the time—until the one time it doesn’t.

“No one should marry the person who makes them happy. Marry the person you want by your side at your lowest p-point. Marry the person you…you never get sick of. Who you always want more from. Who makes you proud to be theirs.”

“But if you…” She looks down but the phone is useless; the words are illegible now. “If you do happen to find your person, it’s an act of courage to tell them that. To say, ‘please love me back.’ To let someone else hold your heart in their hands, knowing it could—actually, it probably will—end badly. Knowing that they’re going to fuck up. Knowing you’ll both hurt each other. But if that’s your person, it’s worth the risk. Because your person will see the best version of you. They’ll have a whole list of reasons why they think you’re irreplaceable. And they’ll tell you.”

I’m not healed yet. My existential wound is still fucking bleeding. And it might be too late. But you said there’s never going to be a perfect time. So I’m here now, saying that we deserve to be happy. Maybe there’s no such thing as soulmates, but I think you’re my person. And I’m yours.

Somewhere in that mass of people dressed in colorful outfits is a man wearing a dark hat and jacket, reading a sloppily dictated love declaration. It’s either the beginning of a love story or a moment she’ll be narrating to therapists for years to come.

Maybe being in love is knowing that you’d live it all over again—every part, suffering included—to get right back to the place where you’re standing.

Maybe there’s no such thing as soulmates. Maybe there are only people who trust each other enough to begin something without being assured of the end.