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About the author: Twenty-something offering stories of what I've learned about life, love, health, and happiness.

I'm heading home to Nashville. I watch outside the window as the plane drifts sluggishly through the rainy clouds, each raindrop lingering momentarily and then breaking apart reluctantly, and in many ways I feel this myself. Two contriving thoughts, what I am doing and what I know I should be doing.

I think about you, I think about us. I wonder how I can continue to do this to myself. To pretend that I have something that I don't. To pretend that being with you, without the title, without the promise of a tomorrow, without the stability of a "we" is enough. How could it ever be enough? Should it be enough?

I begin to doubt my ability to love. This relationship that is so perfect in so many ways, is also slowly, and all encompassingly taking pieces of my confidence, my pride, and my belief in love.

I feel happy with you, despite the gnawing feeling in the back of my mind telling me that it is short lived. A relationship on borrowed time, knowing that deep down, you have one foot on the door precipice just waiting for the right moment to leave. I think about this generation and how dating has become this long and drawn out phase without commitment, but yet claim over another person. The "Grass is Greener" mentality: the idea that there maybe someone better out there, so stay 'somewhat' single.

I think about my life without you, how empty and hard each day would be. I would go to work, numbingly fumbling my way through the day just hoping to keep myself together long enough that I don't cry in front of my coworkers. I would agree to drinks after work, and as much as my girlfriends would try to assure me that I will find someone better and that you weren't right for me, I won't care because all I wanted was you.

I go over every si