The day after I said “I love you” to Jason for the first time, we frolicked around San Francisco, walking the hilly streets and stopping at little boutiques and tasting wine.
Three times, over the course of that day, he said “I love you” and paused, looking at me expectantly. And three times, I ignored the jolt of panic that coursed through my body. I mustered that phrase back.
The third time, the conversation stalled. He asked, “Do you mean it?”
Do you mean it? I asked myself, too. I didn’t know.
“I think so,” I replied. “But how can I know for sure?”
I don’t remember what he said in response, but I do remember beginning to cry at that little SF wine bar. I wanted certainty, for him and for me, and I could provide none.
I felt a little broken that night.
