Love the one youre with

Nobody cheated or lied or moved across the country or delivered an ultimatum about what should come next. Instead, there was just a shift I couldn't quite pinpoint, a quiet transfer of power. It was so subtle, in fact, that for a while I thought I was just being paranoid-a typical, needy girl, something I had always prided myself on not being, and something I never had to be with Leo. But after a while, I knew it wasn't in my head. Leo still loved me; he told me he did, and he would never say those words if he didn't mean them. But our feelings definitely became lopsided. Only slightly perhaps, but that's the thing about love-even slight differences are readily apparent, marked by small but irrefutable changes in behavior. Little things, like instead of calling me right back, he'd wait a few hours, sometimes even a full day. He started going out with the boys on a regular basis again, and joined an ice hockey intramural team that played on Saturday nights. We began to watch television at night rather than just talk, and sometimes he was too tired for sex, unfathomable in our early days when he'd often wake me up in the middle of the night, touching me everywhere. And when we did make love, there was all too often a feeling of remoteness afterward. A disconnect as he'd roll away from me or stare into space, lost in his own, private thoughts, another mysterious place.

'What are you thinking?' I'd ask, a question both of us once posed ad nauseam, the other answering with exacting detail. A question that now seemed to set him on edge.

'Nothing,' he'd snap.

'Nothing?' I'd say, thinking that such a thing is impossible. You're always thinking something.

'Yes, Ellen. Nothing,' he'd say as I frantically took note that he wasn't calling me by his usual pet form, Ellie. 'Sometimes I'm just thinking nothing.'

'Okay,' I'd say, determined to give him space or play it cool, all the while relentlessly, doggedly analyzing his every move, speculating about what was wrong. Did I get on his nerves? Was I too far from his ideal? Did he still have feelings for his ex-girlfriend, an Israeli artist six years his senior (which made her a dozen years more experienced than I)? Was I as good as she in bed? Did he love me as much as he once loved her-and more important, did he love me as much as he once loved me?

At first, these questions were all internal musings, but slowly they surfaced, sometimes in the middle of a heated argument, other times as I broke down in frustrated tears. I demanded assurances, fired off questions, painted him into corners, started arguments about everything and nothing. One night, when I was alone in his apartment, I even snooped through his drawers and read a few pages of his journal-the sacred book stuffed with cards and clippings, photos and musings. A book that he carried everywhere and made me feel a rush of love for him every time he cracked it open. It was a huge mistake-not because of what I found or didn't find, but because I was left with an awful, hollow ache afterward, an almost unwashed feeling. I was that kind of girl now; we were that kind of couple. I tried to put it out of my mind and move on, but just couldn't get past what I had done-what he had made me do. So, a few days later, I broke down and confessed, leading to an explosive fight in which I got him to admit that he didn't believe he could ever make a permanent commitment. To me. To anyone.

'Why not?' I said, filled with devastation and frustration.

'Marriage just isn't for me,' he said, shrugging nonchalantly.

'Why not?' I said, pressing him for more. Always for more.

He sighed and said marriage was essentially a contract between two people-and contracts are signed when people don't fully trust one another. 'Which clearly you don't,' he said, throwing all the blame my way.

I apologized and cried and told him that of course I trusted him and that I had no idea what had come over me and that I didn't care about marrying him, I just wanted to be with him, forever.

His expression became steely as he said, 'I'm twenty-nine. I don't want to talk about forever.'

'Okay,' I said, feeling the onset of groveling. 'I'm sorry.'

He nodded and said, 'Okay. Let's just drop it, all right?'

I nodded, pretending to be placated, and a few minutes later we made love and I convinced myself that everything would be fine. We were just going through a rough patch, a few growing pains, and I needed to be patient, ride the wave, take the bad with the good. I told myself that love is sometimes a war of attrition, and that through sheer force of will, I could fix our problems, love him enough for both of us.

But days later, we got into our final fight, which was dramatic only as far as the calendar; it was the New Year's Eve of the new millennium.

'New Year's is amateur night,' Leo had been insisting for weeks, every time I begged him to come to the party I had promised Margot I'd attend. 'You know I hate those scenes. And this Y2K hype is unbearable. It's just another year.'

'Please come,' I said. 'It's important to Margot.'

'Then let Margot party it up.'

'It's important to me.'

'Well, it's important to me to stay home,' he said.

I negotiated, pleaded. 'Just come for a little while. An hour or two. Then we'll go home.'

'We'll see,' he finally conceded-an answer that almost always means no.

But that night, I clung to the faith that he'd surprise me and show up. I imagined the gauzy, backlit scene. Our eyes locking and the crowd parting as he found my lips, right at midnight. Just like in When Harry Met Sally. I spent the whole night watching the clock and the door, and feeling generally heartsick, but ever hopeful. Until eleven fifty-nine came, and I stood in a corner alone, listening to Prince's pulsing remix of '1999' and then the final, stomach-turning, ten-second countdown. A drunk, giddy Margot found me minutes later, hugging me hard, gushing about how much she loved me and how much we had to look forward to. But then she returned to her own date, and I went home alone, sleeping with the phone next to my pillow, waiting, even praying.

But Leo never called that night. Nor did he call the next morning. Around noon, when I couldn't stand it another second, I took the subway to his apartment. He was home, reading the paper and watching MTV.

'You never came,' I said, pathetically stating the obvious.

'Sorry,' he said, sounding not at all sorry. 'I meant to. I fell asleep around ten-thirty.'

'I was all alone at midnight,' I said, pitifully, self-righteously.

'So was I,' he laughed.

'It's not funny,' I said, now more angry than hurt.

'Look. I never promised you I'd come,' he said, agitated.

I quickly backed down, resting my head on his shoulder as we watched a bowl game on television, then made Greek omelets-Leo's specialty-followed by sex on the couch. But some time afterward, when he stood abruptly and told me he had to go work on a story, I got upset all over again.

'It's New Year's Day,' I whined, detesting the sound of my own voice.

'I still have deadlines,' he said flatly.

I looked at him, my head spinning with bitter resentment and desperate grief, and then opened my mouth and uttered those infamous words.

'This isn't working,' I said, believing in my heart that I was only testing the waters, pushing the limits, trying another tactic to reel him back in. 'I think we should break up.'

I expected resistance, a fight, at least a robust discussion. But instead, Leo quickly agreed that I was right. He said so tenderly, almost lovingly, which made me feel worse than an angry response would have. He put his arms around me, his relief almost palpable.

I had no choice but to play along. After all, it had been my suggestion in the first place.

' 'Bye, Leo,' I said, sounding way braver than I felt.

'Good-bye, Ellen,' he said, at least feigning sadness.

I hesitated, but knew there was no turning back. So I left his place, in shock and denial, springing for a cab home instead of taking the subway.

When I got back to my apartment, Margot was in the family room, reading a magazine. 'Are you okay?' she said.

I told her I didn't know.

'What happened?'

'We broke up.'