He always has time for the scenic route. He took me to the forest to watch shooting stars, the desert to see the super bloom. We bicycled down thrilling back roads in the dead of night and walked the beach in the rain. He would lip sync through long country songs, two inches from my face, so he could cry through his favorite parts while holding my hand. Never mind that I was in the middle of brushing my teeth. The more I foamed at the mouth, the more he wanted to kiss it.

His solutions are simple but brilliant. If I am cranky at the end of a long day, he picks me up, plops me into bed, tucks me in and switches off the lights. Problem solved.

Still, other problems have lingered. There’s a fine line between opposites attract and intractable differences. We have a love story, but love isn’t enough for me, and I do feel uneasy admitting that.

When I was younger, I believed the holy grail of romance was the birth of love. But now I have seen that love is the easy part; love will come again and again, as many times as you allow it. And then what? What about all the other details?

We disagree on how to treat people, where to spend money, what it means to explore the world. I’m a low-key creature who burns sage and collects Craigslist art. He’s an eye-for-an-eye vigilante who keeps a gun. His logical mind is razor-keen; mine is more inclined to imagery and approximation. I think he would be an excellent father, but I can’t imagine us having children together. On the verge of 37, I do think about it.

I broke up with him on Labor Day, right before the full moon. I had woken up crying and realized after a few hours that I wouldn’t be able to stop until I let him go. When my gut takes over, I can turn into a beast. I knew I had to do this but didn’t know how.