Can a Theater Seat For One Still Hold a Love Story?

Can a theater seat for one still hold a love story?

By Sophia Horowitz

I’ve always loved the theater. Growing up, my family and I went to see a Broadway show about once a year, and we made an entire day of it. A proper Jewish deli breakfast—because nothing beats a true New York bagel—followed by lunch and dessert at Junior’s, where the hostess cupcakes and deep-fried blintzes felt almost as magical as the show itself. We would live in the city for a few hours. Suspend reality. Step into something bigger.

Since coming to college, I’ve tried to make more of an effort to see live theater—even with our ever-growing, slightly unhinged schedules. So this week felt like the perfect opportunity to act on that want. As students, we already get discounted tickets to local theaters, so it would be stupid not to use them, right? So I bought a ticket to see the touring production of The Sound of Music.

And I took myself on a date.

I knew I’d be coming straight from work, so I got all dolled up beforehand and even packed my bag with my favorite candy. After work, I strolled over to the theater, and the second I stepped inside, I was in awe. It was glamorous in that classic, old-world way. Velvet seats. Gilded balconies. The kind of place that makes you sit up straighter without meaning to.

I’ve been to this theater before, so I knew my way around. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a flicker of discomfort watching happy families shuffle to their seats together. And that’s when a wonderful woman entered the picture. Let’s call her Betsy.

While I was waiting to be shown to my seat, Betsy—one of the ushers—complimented my outfit. We started chatting about how families are always in such a rush and how I shouldn’t let anyone cut me in line. I laughed and told her I wasn’t in a hurry. And almost as soon as the words left my mouth, a family stepped right in front of me. We both burst out laughing.

She gently pulled me aside, walked me to my seat, and we chatted about how I was there alone, just to enjoy the show. She said it like it was something sweet. Admirable, even. Betsy stood in the aisle near my seat for most of the night, and somehow that small kindness made the whole theater feel less intimidating.

I sat next to a mother and daughter. For a split second, I felt foolish for dressing up as I shook off my coat—it wasn’t exactly the vibe. But then I remembered my favorite mottos: no one knows where you’re going after this.

I could have a birthday party later. A fancy dinner. A secret admirer waiting outside.

So I took a deep breath. The curtain rose.

Now, I’m a musician. I played in pit orchestras for years. So the second the overture began, tears pricked my eyes. And as the show went on, they just kept coming. Watching children see theater magic for the first time—tugging at their parents, whispering, “Mommy, how did they do that?”—undid me in the most beautiful way. At intermission, I noticed the couple behind me. (I’m a people-watcher. You’ll learn this about me.)The woman returned to her seat first. A few minutes later, the man came back and casually pulled a bag of Twizzlers out of his suit jacket, surprising her. Her face lit up. Completely delighted by something as small as candy from what she thought was an ordinary bathroom trip. It was tender. Effortless. And that’s when it hit me.

As Maria and Captain von Trapp admitted their love and fought for it, I realized I had dated someone for two years who would never have enjoyed this with me. Who wouldn’t have made a day of it the way my parents did. Who wouldn’t have surprised me with a cupcake or a bag of Twizzlers. Who didn’t quite understand the magic that lives in a theater when the lights dim and the orchestra swells.

And while I may have been one of the only people there alone, I wasn’t lonely. I was immersed. Watching families experience the same magic I did as a child—and still do. And I realized something. It’s not dramatic to want a partner who will stand beside you, maybe even sing My Favorite Things on the way out. The true fantasy is me putting its importance aside, since while I can do it alone doesnt mean I always should. In true Betsy fashion, it finally hit me that I should step forward, even if only for myself. 

When I left the theater, it had started to snow. I love snow. I look like Berry from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 and run around trying to catch a snowflake on my tongue. So there I was, in heels, leaping and lunging through little piles of fresh snow on my walk home, laughing to myself like a cliché rom-com heroine. And it felt like the magic of the theater had followed me outside. Like the night didn’t end when the curtain fell.

It felt like proof. Proof that I can reconnect with parts of myself without guilt.
Proof that there was so much joy after this heartbreak.
Proof that trying—showing up alone, dressing up anyway, letting yourself feel it all—is, in fact, kinda hot.

Because sometimes buying the ticket, dressing up, crying at the overture, and walking home in the snow, knowing you didn’t shrink yourself for anyone, is all the proof you need to know you are doing just fine.