I spent the next week in a productive confusion. I went to work. I did research. I gave a guest lecture on identity development which a bunch of students dutifully wrote down notes for. I had coffee with Marcus and caught up on his work. I went to the gym and ran myself into the ground. I lived my life on the surface. But beneath it all, one persistent question kept nipping at me. Was Ella right?
That weekend I sat in my apartment with a glass of wine and my journal, scribbling in it with a critical eye for the first time in years.
The question was deceptively simple: was I happy being single or was I afraid of being in a relationship?
The answer was complicated by the fact that I liked my life just the way it was.
I wrote
