A couple of months ago, I published an essay on NPR.org about how many of us “fall in love with the story” of a person or relationship, rather than the person themselves. In response, I got a lot of enthusiastic notes from friends and readers who identified with my dilemma.
And then, there was one person–one of my best friends from college, in fact–who wrote to tell me that they could not relate.
Like me, this friend has a tortured romantic soul that is frequently, tragically, getting trampled upon: we understand one another.
But not, evidently, on this.
“I guess you’re more mature than me,” my friend wrote. “The story is still way more important than how I actually get along with someone. That’s stupid, but at least I admit it.”