There was the threat of “the one.” The one who was really ours. The infinitely perfect match, who completed your puzzle in a way that only fate could have intended. The happy ending.

The soul mate.

We tell our children to hold on to their hearts. We mix our messages, stir the pot, tell them that, like love, sex is only pure if it’s with our “one.” That regret treads in the shadows of young love. That if we gave up our bodies and souls to someone, we’d only end up numb.

We were raised as a generation who could care less. Who invented games to pretend we weren’t feeling something. Who hid ourselves from how much it hurt. Whoever cared least, won. We didn’t text back, we dressed as if we hadn’t planned this outfit. Love is for movies, for the one; our lives were trial periods.

We were raised as a generation who couldn’t care more. Who bled ourselves dry for the wrong person because we were so obsessed with making someone stick to us that we couldn’t let them out of our lives even if they were intent on running. We slammed the door on the people who were toxic to us only to open it again, bawling. We carefully mapped asking her out, only for our tongues to falter at the last minute. We loved loudly, in public; we love wild.

We couldn’t balance it. We ruin perfect relationships on some magical idea that the real “one” would have some kind of universal indicator of our match. We saw flaws where there didn’t need to be any, for no other reason than because we were worried. What if he seems perfect but six years down the road while we’re married, you find the “one” who happens to be your best friend from grade school. What if she cheats. What if you’re both just caught up in illusion.

We couldn’t balance it. We’d stay in the worst of situations because of illogical reasons. we’d given him our virginity, we couldn’t leave. She was what your parents wanted, even though she was mean. The course of true love never did run smooth, we’d whisper. We’d picture our future selves married to them and our stomachs would drop. but we’d hold on. We needed to prove ourselves. That our love wasn’t wrong.

“when you find the one, you’ll know,”

But you don’t. The average person falls in love eight times before they find someone. Eight little loves that are all bone-deep. That all are people we wish we could keep. That feel real and feel clean.

The right one is the one you make work. It’s the person who finishes you but also finishes the dishes. Who talks about the small things instead of letting fate decide them. Who knows that they’re not perfect and neither are you. Who might not have been your childhood best friend, but sure knows you better than anyone.

True love poisoned us. We search for something that’s been marketed as the only real love. But love isn’t the kiss to wake us up. Love isn’t happily ever after, running from the “wrong marriage” to kiss our rediscovered ex-boyfriend. True love doesn’t come with signs and fairy godmothers and instantly liking each other’s favorite candies.

True love is the kiss that wakes us up so we can get ready, even though he could sleep in. It’s little things. It’s doing the laundry even though it’s her turn. It’s gently talking about the other person’s demons until both of you are raw, but healing. It’s buying her the box of junior mints even though you never liked them.

The “one” is a myth. It only means, “the one who works to make sure you two fit.”