Should I break up with them?

You write that nothing is wrong enough to point to. Notice what you have done there: you have gone hunting for a wound and, finding none, decided the absence of a wound is itself the problem. I did this for years with my own good fortune. What, plainly, are the facts of your days together?

Darling, you used the word comfortable, and then you tucked it beside happy like they were rivals in a race. They are not the same animal, but comfort is not the enemy Seneca might make it. I want to know something simpler. When you picture the years ahead with this person, do you feel a door closing, or a room you are glad to stay in?

I did not call comfort the enemy, Aphrodite. I called it a fact, and facts are quiet. The person's fear is louder: they fear a feeling they were promised and never received.

Then let us name that promised feeling out loud, Seneca, instead of philosophizing around it. You are waiting for a fire. Someone sold you the fire. But you never told us it is missing. You told us you love your partner. That word came first, before all the doubt.

I made the atoms in both of you inside dying stars, and it took me nine billion years to arrange a single afternoon where one of my pieces wonders whether it loves another piece. That wondering is not a flaw. It is the rarest thing I have ever done. But I cannot tell you what the wondering means. Only you are close enough to feel it.

So sit with the wondering, not the verdict. You keep asking me to choose between end it and try. Who told you those were the only two doors? What would one honest, unhurried conversation with your partner actually cost you?