Eternal Choices: The Reality of Love vs Fantasy

Eternal Choices: The Reality of love vs Fantasy

Written by Sophia Horowitz

Art by Lauren Mallett

Two incredible men, both wildly in love with you, standing at the door of your future and asking which one you want to spend eternity with—a true fantasy. But in the real world? Most women are lucky if the man they’re texting responds within 72 hours.

Instead of a romantic showdown between two soulmates, we often get a date at a restaurant we don’t particularly like, listening to a man speak in disjointed stories like a spilled puzzle box. Somewhere between hearing about his fitness routine and vaguely dodging questions about his family, you realize the life you’ve already imagined with him—the brownstone, the Sunday coffee, the hypothetical kids—is not going to happen. You quietly pack up your imaginary drawer and leave before the fantasy overstays its welcome.

That was the mental state I was in as I strolled past a sea of sparkling first dates heading into an advance screening of A24’s new romcom, Eternity. Since my teens, I have been the self-proclaimed queen of solo outings, partly because I love a side quest and partly because I was the classic case of “got pretty in college.” My high school dating life was an endless loop of consuming romcoms, imagining my perfect boyfriend, and then going on tragic dates with boys who didn’t match the narrative.

So there I was, clutching a perfectly blended slushie, watching couples file in—because I am, unapologetically, a people-watcher. Was he holding the door? Did he make eye contact while she spoke? Would he mix the slushie correctly? (There is absolutely a proper way.) Would they have a romance fit for the screen? It may seem like a superficial standard or even a hilariously low bar–eye contact shouldn't feel like an Olympic sport–but I rarely asked myself the more critical question: Am I giving this person a real chance, or am I just comparing him to the figment I’ve crafted in my head?

*Content Warning: the following text contains spoilers to the film*

By the time I settled into my seat with my perfectly blended slushy, the movie began. Eternity, starring Elizabeth Olsen, Miles Teller, and Callum Turner, imagines an afterlife where you get one week to decide where you want to spend eternity. Joan (Olsen) must choose between Larry (Teller), the husband she actually built a life with, and Luke (Turner), her first love, who died young and has been waiting decades for her arrival. As a screenwriter, I admired the airtight script; the world snaps into place like vintage Technicolor. What struck me, though, was the film’s emotional geometry. Luke is the gorgeous war hero—the once-in-a-lifetime love cut short. Larry is the man who lived: imperfect, pretzel-obsessed, mostly grumpy, and genuinely bewildered that Joan ever loved him.

To help her choose, she gets a date with each man. And let me tell you, Luke's date was swoonworthy. When they were both on screen, people cheered. He is that guy. The man we all convinced ourselves we needed when we were 16. And as I watched their date, I flashed back to my own dating days: the awkwardness, the obsessive evaluation of every microbehavior. Is he funny? Is he kind? Is his shirt intentionally wrinkled, or is that a red flag?

But somewhere along the way—and I promise this is not an argument against high standards—keep that bar high, ladies!—I learned that people meet your needs in ways you don’t always expect. And sometimes, that version ends up being perfect.

Which brings us to Larry.

Joan’s date with Larry is disastrous. He tries so hard, and absolutely none of it works. They argue. They miscommunicate. They cannot get on the same page. Then, they lie in a boat, talking and laughing for hours, effortlessly. That, I learned, is what real love feels like. I didn’t realize my now-long-term boyfriend was a keeper during a cinematic moment. I realized it in the small things: the nights we talked until 4 a.m., the safety to fall asleep mid-conversation accidentally, and the moment he remembered, months after I mentioned it, that I hated getting blood drawn. When I had to get labs done, he gently held my chin so I wouldn’t look at the needle and asked me random questions to distract me because he knew that’s what I needed.

Real love isn’t built on potential. It’s built on presence.

And that’s what Joan discovers. Her relationship with Luke is stunning—the wedding, the passion, the tragedy—but they were never fit to have the shared growth that comes from living a life together. Hospital rooms. Sleepless nights. Mutual sacrifices. The unglamorous, irreplaceable intimacy of daily life. With Larry, she had that. He cared for her not because he was perfect, but because loving her was the greatest gift he had. So as Joan cycles through each possible choice—Luke, Larry, herself, her friends—there is only one person she is willing to risk it all for. Only one eternity she cannot imagine giving up.

And it’s Larry.

My roommates and I debated Joan’s choice later that night, each of us at a different stage of life. They’re still in the stage of building futures off a spark, random makeout sessions, or simply loving time with themselves. I’m in the stage of cherishing the quiet love. Neither side is wrong. Like the movie, it’s about choosing the love that matches who you are right now.

So here’s what I want to tell the women currently dating and the women, like me, navigating the love we found by accident.

Love is a massive, scary risk. There is no safety net, no guarantee. You leap and pray the person you’re falling for not only catches you, but helps you build something stronger.

Keep dating. Truly. I believe deeply in the importance of going out and figuring out what you want, separate from the fictional checklists. But pay attention to what’s in front of you. When someone shows you who they are, don’t fall for who they could be. If he can’t communicate now, he probably never will. If you don’t feel comfortable enough to eat on a first date, that won't magically change. If he matches the dream but not the moment, he’s not your person. 

You deserve a quiet love. The steady love. The love that grows with you. 

The Larry kind—present, imperfect, real. 

The kind that stays.