It began with a doubt: a doubt that maybe he was the wrong one—that maybe the right one was that guy I see every week but never talk to. But that was a fleeting thought. I forgot about it, actually. I forgot about it while I walked around D.C. with him and had a constant stream of dialogue floating through my head—like subtitles to a foreign film. And walking and chatting with this guy was foreign—exciting, in a new way. I didn’t even notice the subtitles.
Until it ended, that is. When the break up happened, a state of mourning ensued, and a few weeks passed. I was feeling better, which surprised me. I thought it would take much longer to feel okay. And then that other guy I saw every week began speaking to me. Long talks in the form of written words followed, and then came the hanging out.
We went on a long walk through D.C., and there was so much between us that the subtitles were non-existent. For some reason, they weren’t needed. And I noticed. I wondered why I didn’t feel the need for inner dialogue. Why wasn’t I having a conversation with myself in my head like “normal”? It took time, but eventually I knew that the end of the subtitles was significant. With him, I wasn’t aware of myself. I didn’t have to be because I was that comfortable. That was noticeable. And different.
And with the disappearance of the commentary, I knew that there would be no more wondering, no more waiting, no more worrying about meeting the right one. Just like that, all of my doubts, all of the analyzing: it ended.