In all romance stories, there is a guy, and there is a girl. Well, unless you’re talking about a gay love story, or a lesbian love story, where there would be two people of the same sex in love with each other. Or maybe the main character doesn’t fall in love with a person at all: maybe he loves a volleyball named Wilbur. But that wouldn’t be a love story, since the guy can’t really have a committed relationship with a volley ball. I mean, who would be crazy enough to ask a volley ball out on a date?

Ahem.

Well, whatever the genders of the two parties in question, in a love story, there are always two people, who will fall in love, date, get married, have children together et cetera et cetera. Happily ever after. (Or not, if it ends a tragedy.)

But whatever book you’re reading, whoever it is that wrote the script for that romantic comedy you’re watching, no matter the genre, author, setting of the love story, you know who will end up with who. You have this intuitional feeling on the two people that will end up as a couple. Started out with a young single woman? It’s obvious her boyfriend will be the tall, dashing guy she was introduced to at a Christmas party. Is the main character a broken-hearted single dad? You know he’ll marry his son’s beautiful blonde teacher in the end.

But how do you know? Sometimes the main character is involved in a love triangle, where he or she must choose between two people. And sometimes, the main character is deluded by good looks, money, power, or just some quirky habit she finds attractive in the pizza delivery guy. And sometimes, even though the main character claims he or she loved someone, we’re not surprised to find him or her marry someone else in the end.

Then how do you know? Does the author drop obvious hints? Is it just that the character who gets the girl (or guy) is more attractive to us, whether in looks, heart, character?

Whatever the reason, you know. You get frustrated when the two you know will end up together deny their feelings for each other. You shout silent bouts of encouragement when the two take a step further into a serious relationship. You laugh (or cry) in bliss when the inevitable coming-together scene plays (“I love you. Don’t you ever leave me.” “I wouldn’t dream of it, love.” They kiss. Scene fades to black. Credits roll.) It’s plain and clear. They were made for each other.

But here comes the question: is it as obvious to the characters as it is to the audience? Do they know that there’s a crazy (but destined) something that binds them together? Can they see past the obstacles the author has created, of materialistic wealth, of comfort, of denial? If they can, why does it take so long to see the obvious?

Why question something when it’s right in front of your nose?