The hardest part about the grey area isn’t figuring out whether you love someone.

Sometimes that’s the only thing you’re certain of…

It’s figuring out what to do with that love when you can’t quite agree on where it belongs.

I’ve been here with almost every guy I’ve dated, in one way or another. Which probably says something about me, although I haven’t decided exactly what. I haven’t found a book on the subject that has resonated with me, so unfortunately, all my research has been conducted personally.

The findings are inconclusive.

Part of me thinks they grey space deserves a little more grace. Sometimes you end up there because you went into something wholeheartedly. You let yourself get attached before you had answers to questions you hadn’t thought to ask yet.

I don’t think that makes the beginning a mistake. There was something there worth being hopeful about. There might still be.

That’s usually what makes it so difficult.

There are good days. Conversations that remind you why the person became your person in the first place. Something happens, and they’re still the one you want to tell. You can picture another visit, another dinner, another ordinary morning together.

It’s hard to imagine letting someone go when being that close to them still feels like everything you want.

Then someone asks what’s happening between you, and you realize you don’t quite know how to explain it.

Eventually, you have to have the conversation.

The one you rehearse while getting ready, then decide against having because you’re finally having a nice night. The question sitting in your throat while you ask about their day instead. You tell yourself you’ll bring it up when things are less busy, when you’re together, when you can find a way to say it that doesn’t sound quiet so serious.

You want an honest answer. You would also prefer that the answer doesn’t change anything you love about your life.

A difficult combination.

By the time you finally bring it up, you’ve usually had the conversation alone forty times. You’ve argued both sides. You’ve pictured being reasonable and composed. Then you hear their voice, remember how much you love them, and your very clear opening statement becomes, “I don’t know. What do you think?”

There is something especially difficult about talking to someone you still want to tell everything to, knowing this particular conversation could change whether you get to.

So you go slowly. You explain yourself, then soften it. You try to ask the question in a way that leaves room for an honest answer.

I think that’s the part we don’t talk about enough. You can have a thoughtful, honest conversation and still leave it uncertain. You understand each other a little better. You’re glad you talked. Then you hang up, put your phone down, and realize you still don’t know what tomorrow is supposed to look like.

Do we talk as much? Do I tell you about my day? What do we do with everything we just said?

There’s an awkwardness to returning to ordinary conversation after admitting something that large. A few hours ago, you were talking about whether you should be in each other lives. Now one of you is asking what the other had for dinner. Sometimes the familiarity is comforting. Sometimes it makes you wonder whether anything has changed.

I haven’t always handled that uncertainty well. I’ve reacted when I could have paused. I’ve tried to sound unbothered and then been upset that someone believe me. I’ve wanted reassurance without quite admitting how much I needed it.

Because the good parts are good. There are ordinary days with someone that I wouldn’t trade, even knowing how complicated things would become. I can be grateful for those days and still want to know where we go from here.

That’s what makes the rest so difficult to explain. You can spend a week with someone, feel entirely at home beside them, and still leave with questions you don’t know how to ask. You remember how easy it felt to be together and wonder why talking about being together is so hard.

I believe people can care about each other and still struggle to build something that works. There doesn’t have to be a villain for something to hurt. And you don’t have to question every good moment to admit that you need more than the moments.

I still believe in having the difficult conversation. Even if your voice shakes. Even if you need a minute to figure out what you mean. There’s something tender about hearing someone try to explain a feeling they haven’t entirely figured out themselves.

Sometimes, afterward, I think of all the things I could have said more clearly. The question I softened. The feeling that came out sounding like frustration. I wonder whether they understood what I meant, and whether I gave them enough room to say what they meant, too.

I don’t know why the grey space has been such a familiar place for me. I’d like to think I’m getting better at having the conversations, even if I’m still figuring out what to do afterward.

There’s probably an art to loving someone without getting lost in the uncertainty of it all.

If anyone’s figured that out, do let me know. I have a few questions.