SINGLE FOREVER IS IT REALLY A FULFILLING LIFE CHOICE?

"When I get married, I'll make sure to have a room all to myself, so I can have my own space,"

I say to my roommate, Anne, as she connects her laptop to the TV to watch an episode of the reality show Love is Blind.

"When?!" I pause, licking the silver foil off a strawberry yogurt jar. "I mean 'if.'"

"I always imagined that, sooner or later, the 'happily ever after' moment would come for me too."

That "if" surprised me. It was the first time I felt the need to replace the usual "when," a sign that I am no longer as certain as I once was about finding "the right one." I always imagined that, sooner or later, the 'happily ever after' moment would come for me too. I envisioned walking down the church aisle wearing something white but unconventional, like Bianca Jagger's famous suit, then pregnant, and later with a child sleeping on my lap.

But suddenly, this future began to seem less and less certain, and I paused to think if I really wanted all of that. I once read an article that said, on average, you meet the person you'll marry by the age of 25, and at the moment, I don't see many possible options. Recently, a friend mentioned a similar but gloomier version of this statistic: if you're single at 27, you'll probably be forever. It sounds terrifying, but then I analyze myself, and it's not such a terrible reality.

I feel this strange and growing urge to always talk about my ex-boyfriend. Not because I miss him, but because I want to prove to people that I am actually capable of having and managing a romantic relationship. Someone who lovingly slapped my hands when I started biting my nails, someone whose T-shirts I stole because they were perfect to use as pajamas, and I loved to smell his scent on me, someone I felt close to like no one else. It almost feels like I need to find an excuse for being single: I choose the wrong guys, right now I'm focusing on work, I'm someone who doesn't settle easily, but most importantly, I want my career and personal satisfactions.

"That's why I always talk about my ex-boyfriend. Not because I miss him, but because I want to prove to people that if I want to, I am capable of having a relationship."

On Halloween, I found myself in someone's basement dancing to the beats of Azealia Banks' "212." Despite not knowing the lyrics, I belted out the song, simply making up the words. A guy next to me leaned in and shouted loud enough to be heard, "Can you repeat that for me?"

I recited my version of the verse. He laughed, and through the green, red, and purple lasers, I assessed him for a moment. He was tall enough to have to duck under the low ceiling beams and dressed well. However, I walked away from him because getting to know him wasn't worth it. Spending the entire evening asking personal questions like how he knew the host and where he was from? Certainly not as fun as being with my friends.

"I almost feel like I need to find an excuse for being single: I choose the wrong guys, right now I'm focusing on work, I'm someone who doesn't settle easily..."

In any case, I clung to the idea of him. I do this more with men I encounter casually than with those I go out with. The latter are proof that being single is my choice.

Is it right to allow myself to continue believing that sooner or later "the right one" will come? That I'll meet him at a party, and then, a few weeks later, he gives me a beautiful speech about how he had never felt this way before? Is it right to envision us on vacation together, getting bored on Sundays, or introducing him to my parents, who immediately show him that photo of me with my hair styled with colorful ribbons and beads because I always liked playing with my appearance? Or will this exercise only make me sadder when I realize that my fantasies will never come true? What dream can I replace it with?

"I realized that I didn't care all that much that things weren't going as planned because no one else was suffering the consequences of my mistakes or telling me that I'm incapable of organizing myself."

"This summer, I went on vacation to Greece alone. Initially, many things went wrong. I missed the ferry from Athens to Hydra and had to sit at the port for five hours with nothing to eat but a few stale sandwiches taken from the breakfast buffet. I felt like I was getting a urinary tract infection, and in an attempt to ward it off, I drank so much water that my belly started to resemble an inflatable pool. Ants invaded my beach bag, creeping among my books and chargers. I had to crush their microscopic bodies against the pavement, one by one. It was an unpleasant experience.

A moment later, after I rushed to the restroom, I encountered a man cleaning it. He asked for my name and then sang it using his toilet brush as if it were a microphone. It lifted my spirits, and in my newfound good mood, I realized that I didn't care all that much that things weren't going as planned because no one else was suffering the consequences of my mistakes or telling me that I'm incapable of organizing myself. And when I finally arrived on the island, I felt even better because I had done it all by myself. I ate nectarines until the juice dripped down my wrist and swam in water so clear that I could see fish darting between my legs. I was immensely proud of myself."