How to fall out of love

A cautionary tale

Do everything right.

And by right, I mean do everything to your liking. Hold his hand. Kiss her cheek. Wrap yourselves in each others’ arms on that brick wall that surrounds the cul-de-sac.

Invite her to your grandparents’ house for the 4th of July. Laugh first at the bit of frozen yogurt stuck on his nose, and then wipe it off with the tip of your index finger. Go along with the terrible jokes she tells you. Read books together. Go to coffee together. Get dressed up and go out to dinner just for fun. Because together, the two of you become “we.”

The inevitable we. You’ll stop referring to her as “she” and you as “me.” You’ll be come one all-inclusive package.

Pretty soon you’ll be able to do her errands, and she’ll be able to you yours. You’ll know that he only likes the Breyer’s brand of Vanilla Bean ice cream; you’ll know that she loves that one panini but hates tomatoes, so you’ll order it without them just to make her smile. You’ll start wearing that one down jacket every time you go out, because you know it’s her favorite when it’s cold.

Listen to that one Kelly Clarkson album that’s been stuck in her car CD player since she turned 16 just so she can roll down the windows and sing at the top of her lungs. You like the way her hair blows in the wind, anyway. It’s a win-win situation.

Then comes the inescapable heavy. When his grandpa dies and you don’t know how to comfort someone who hasn’t experienced death before. When her sister goes away to college. When she fights with her mom, and he can’t seem to agree with his brother. This is only the beginning of the heavy.

Somewhere between the bad and the good, the little things will slip through the cracks. Her phone will be in her hand that you want to hold. His lips will be running too fast for you to get a chance to kiss them. You’ll stop paying attention to the way his cheeks get red when his mom brings out his baby photos in front of you; he’ll forget to order your usual soy milk substitute in your latte. But you won’t love him any less.

That’s the catch: you won’t see it when it happens.

You’ll meet for coffee and miss him sitting in the corner and have to text him to ask him where he is and why he’s late. You never cared about that in the beginning. She’ll stare at her hands when she sits down across from you after placing her order. You’ll talk about your days: who you fought with at work, how her teacher embarrassed her, what chapter you liked in a book you’re reading for fun.

You’ll get up from the table and walk out of the cafe, going through the motions. You won’t hold her hand when you drive her home; she won’t sing along to whatever song is on the radio.

And that’s how it happens. Just like that.