It’s thundering outside. I’ve got my little corner view—the floor-to-ceiling kind that feels built for watching the world unravel a little. Lightning cracks through the skyline, and I’m here, in one of the two Eames chairs I bought. I mention it not as some sort of flex, but rather as a conscious decision I made. When someone asks about the choice to buy two, I remark, “I liked the symmetry.” I like to believe it too. In reality, I know deep-down that I purchased it thinking, “one for me, and one for someone who I’ve never met.”

People like to think that being alone is the same as being lonely. Consciously, I’m sure we recognize that the two are wildly different, though. I’m okay here. There’s a playlist humming low through the apartment. Something moody, but not sad. Lots of smooth R&B. My Kindle is open. My mug of green tea is cooling next to me. If I got the timing right, I’d be baking something right now too, just for the smell of it. But mostly I just sit here, and I think, and I type away into the void.

It’s hard to explain what I want without sounding like I’ve read too many personal ads. “Submissive man seeks strong woman” doesn’t really cover it. I don’t want to be bossed around. I want to feel chosen. Not tolerated. Not toyed with. Not “sure I’ll try it”—but actually wanted.

I’ve dated enough to know that’s rare. Someone who gets that I wake up at 5:15 and read too much and show love through effort and structure and “let me fix your problems” and grocery store flowers. Someone who knows that I give until it burns—but still chooses not to ask for more than I can afford.

I think about that second chair a lot. It’d be easy to throw a plant in its place, throw up an ad on Facebook Marketplace, and call it a day. But I don’t. It’s not because I’m holding out like some desperate romantic (well, not entirely), but moreso because I designed this place with the idea of sharing it. I think if you want to share your life, you should live in a way that makes room for someone, even if they’re not here yet. It might be messy, and they might not slot into your life nicely like a pair of puzzle pieces, but they can have the space to enter in.

Maybe they never show up. Maybe I get tired of buying two of things and revert to one. Maybe I rename my nightstand lamps from “My Lamp” and “Her Lamp” to “Left Lamp” and “Right Lamp.” Maybe the dating apps and dead-end chats and half-lustful almost-relationships keep rolling in until the chair becomes part of the furniture, not the fantasy.

But for now, it stays. For the person who could sit down, glance at the view, and not ask what I do—but ask what I think about when I’m sitting here alone.

And if she never comes?

Well… I’ll still have this sweet chair.