She shoots back a flurry of heart emojis as the gate agent makes an announcement that passengers in my section of the plane can begin boarding. I take a final look around the waiting area. There are families who look like they’re heading off to summer camp, couples with sunglasses perched atop their heads for vacation, and a smattering of women (not for me) and older men (again, no). If there are no real prospects for me here, maybe that means my match lives in Maine. Would it be awful if I bumped into a coed at Clifton and found out that is supposed to be my match? I don’t have the patience to date a college student. I’d like kids in five years; we’d be on different time lines. And anyway, I like my outfit too much to risk splattering beer all over it.

There’s another flicker of fear that’s more painful to consider. Maybe there’s nobody coming for me because I already met the love of my life—not earlier today, but three years ago, when I bumped into Jonah at The Strand, the famed bookstore near Union Square. We were both browsing for photography books: I was hunting down fashion photographer Richard Avedon’s work and he was looking for inspiration for his own photography. Back then, I had a strict “no relationships” rule. What was the point of getting too involved when I knew my soulmate was waiting just a few years down the road? But when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. I never meant to fall in love, but it happened anyway, in tantalizing increments: at the West Village wine bar where we had our first date; then outside that night, huddled under the awning of a bodega to kiss as rainwater soaked his oversized wool sweater; on long walks with his camera slung around his neck; in diners on Sundays as we split hefty omelets stuffed with lox. I couldn’t tell Jonah about Gloria’s prophecy. How was I supposed to tell my ultra-logical, atheist boyfriend who scoffed when I read my horoscope that I was destined to want someone else even more?

I forced myself to break up with him six months ago, thinking I’d have just enough time to heal before my date rolled around. If only I knew then how raw and shattered I’d still feel now. At my lowest points, I worry I was too superstitious, too quick to blindly believe in something close to magic. Too hasty in my decision to leave Jonah.