I often read Modern Love for laffs because it is often ridiculous and self-indulgent and overly-dramatic — in a great, great way — but this week’s version, by Elisabeth Eaves, is most genuinely good one I’ve read in a while (and “good” as in “actually good,” not as in “makes me snicker and that is good”). Also maybe I have the wander-bug and the relationship-phobia and so I can relate to it more than a little.