BBC News informs me that the Writers Guild of America has been on strike. Evidently those authoring the life of one, Verity are not part of this guild. Every acne-ridden, angsty, self-obsessed teenager thinks their life is one unique drama. And far be it from me to fall back upon those days, but there are times that I have shook my head at events unfolding in my tiny cosmos and asked, “huh!?”

Those familiar with my very short and rather turbulent romance with V tend to agree that it’s something out of a valentine’s day special on HBO. Honestly, who actually meets their significant other standing under a clock tower at Grand Central? If that’s not the missing scene from Serendipity or when Harry met Sally, I don’t know what is. In a generation (myself included) that is growing increasingly cynical, true romance seems like a fairy tale. When was the last time you actually met someone who lived “happily ever after?” And then once in a blue moon, you meet someone who turns your whole world upside down, and things are never the same again.

It was entirely by accident that we met at all. And at most it was only ever going to be a passing relationship; one destined to be some story at a cocktail party or dinner down the road. But it’s been four years and that cocktail party’s never come. Four years and he still says I capture his imagination, and I still unconsciously hold my breath on the phone until he picks up. It’s like nothing has changed. We’ve gotten older, wiser, started careers. Instead of living one state over or even across the border, we’re now sixteen timezones apart. Sixteen. And still, nothing’s changed.

He thinks it’s because we’re actually the exact same person, living on different sides of the planet and in different genders. That it’s really a tear in the time-space continuum and the universe has just folded over on itself. And as for me, I don’t say anything at all. Because if I do, I will only be able to speak my greatest fear – that he really might be the closest thing to my other half, and it is impossible for us to be together.

The part that makes this so darkly ironic is the message I received a few days ago. He’s going to be here in a few weeks. Good God, what am I going to do?