“I should be in love with you,” she said puzzled, as if working out a math problem in her head.

Yes, you should, I thought. I shifted in my seat, preparing for the end like a blindfolded man before a firing squad.

I was falling for her. What wonderful timing.

I listened cautiously as she explained her reservations, fears, and problems that she had to deal with. We all have them, I thought. And I shared mine with her.

The end didn’t come that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.

Instead, I stayed the night because she asked me to. I couldn’t say no even if I wanted to. I spent the next day with her downtown pretending everything would work out. Her hand in mine helped cloud last night’s conversation to the point where I questioned if it ever took place. She smiled at me while I tried on ill-fitting hats in Banana Republic and H&M. “You look cute,” she said playfully. And I thought that maybe, just maybe this thing had a chance.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Several weeks earlier, I had said the same thing to myself: I should be in love with her.

But my history of anxiety, over-thinking, and an inability to open up and rely on someone else were the brick walls between me and these things called “healthy relationships” that other people seemed to have.

I’d been perpetually single. The heartbreaker. It was a tiring role I could perform in my sleep. And I could tell that the critics (my friends), were yawning inside each time I told them of the latest girl to waltz in and out of my life without so much as an introduction.

I realized that I had a choice. I could give up. I could turn tail and run. But what good would that do me? Would I be doomed to a life of meeting great women, enjoying their company for a few months, and then tossing them aside like a magazine in a doctor’s office? That’s not the life I wanted.

Or, I could wage war with myself. I could call myself out in the middle of the street. I could take a hard look within and say this is no longer acceptable. For years I thought that I just hadn’t met the right girl. Maybe I was the problem after all.

And here was a woman for whom I thought it worth taking up arms.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The happy part of this story is that I won. I silenced the foe within that relished shouting “Next!” after a few dates or a few weeks or a few months.

This time would be different. After years of avoiding the wolf trap, I allowed myself to be captured.

The sad part of this story is that she didn’t want to keep me. Perhaps the demons to which she alluded that night were too strong or too frightening. Or, more likely, as the old saying goes, she just wasn’t that into me.

Ten days after I fell for her, I told her that I would be there for her while she worked things out. I confessed that I cared. “You mean a lot to me,” I whispered, like that same condemned man pleading his last words. She returned the sentiment. We had been entangled in some way for nearly half a year. “You—this…is worth it,” I explained. And I wanted to help if I could.

With my hand in hers, she looked into my eyes and said, “That’s sweet. That’s because you’re a nice guy. But these are things I need to work out on my own.”

A few weeks later, she began dating her co-worker.