This fear of commitment is more like a yawning expanse of existential dread. A fear of those exhausting, drawn-out arguments over meaningless minutiae. A fear of committing to someone, and then waking up with the realization that I don’t love them. Or that they don’t love me. Or that I’ve lost myself, who I was, who I wanted to be. It’s a fear of inertia. A deep, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping fear of inertia. That’s what I meant to say when she asked why I fear commitment. I meant to say, “Because I’m afraid that if I commit, I’ll lose my autonomy and disappear.” I called myself a pussy instead, except I didn’t use the word pussy. I can be fearless to the point of stupidity and I have a reasonably high threshold for pain. But there’s fear there, under the lady-bravado. No question.