THERE’S A reason they call it falling in love. Not climbing in love, not careful and gradual descent into love. Falling. A terrifying, uncontrolled, unintentional downward movement.
But there’s that moment before you hit the air, when you’re teetering on the edge, arms windmilling. There’s that stretched-out second when you know you could go back. You could dig your fingers into the cliff face and walk away intact.
And sure, you don’t want to let go without having some reasonable hope that things will work out the way you want them to.
On the other hand, you can’t expect someone else to jump if you’re not willing to fall yourself.
Easier said than done, though, right?