Sometimes, we just don’t know why a relationship ends

The man speaks in disbelief about the end of a relationship. He is certain that she loved him. That she still does. According to her, like she has never loved another man. And he loved her. Still does. "We should have made it," he says defiantly for now, what, the seventh time in the session? He is a man trying to make 1 plus 1 equal 3 by the sheer force of his will.

"I'm gonna die not getting why we're not together," he says.

Every now and then a patient's suffering will, for a moment, fragment me. Lift me for a sober glimpse into forever. Me-the-Therapist stays with the patient, while the Other-Me walks slowly to the edge of some cosmic cliff to ponder the abyss.

It's getting to the point where I'm no fun any more/ I am sorry/ Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud/ I am lonely/ I am yours/ You are mine /You are what you are/ You make it hard

That's the first verse, actually, from my second favorite song of all time: Stephen Stills' "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," recorded by Crosby, Stills & Nash. The acoustic guitar is beyond passionate. Harmonics. Open tuning. The vocal harmonies make my blood boil.

A few years ago, I spent an ungodly $850 on two tickets to see Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Second row. Right in front of the stage. Stephen came out alone with his six-string Guild, and soloed the song right in front of me. He stills plays it from his core. The music levitates me; I don't remember deciding to stand. Ever have water come out of your eyes before you notice you are crying?

Oh, the story. The message is an awe, a miracle and a tragedy.

See, Stephen was in love with folk singer Judy Collins, and she with him. Lost in love. Head over heels in love. But the thesis in the song isn't about that. What the song says in exquisite, loving, desperate agony is this: Profound love between two people has virtually nothing to say about whether two people make it. Love, even true love, is an independent variable in the question of whether two people choose a lifetime of emotionally committed couplehood.

True love is a gift. Couplehood is a choice. The first has very little bearing on the second.

The second has much more to do with timing. And maddening, immutable circumstance. And courage. And the willingness to keep showing up. The humility to see that true love doesn't cross your path every day. Couplehood means having the desire to do the work of personal growth, which great love requires.

Just because you are absurdly stupid blind-ass lucky enough to find the gift of true love under your metaphorical Christmas tree, it doesn't say anything about whether you should choose couplehood. Or that you can. Or that you will. Or that, if you do, you will be likewise chosen.

I manage to reintegrate myself into one present therapist before the man catches on that I have left the room.

Here, I think, is where a lot of his friends and maybe even some therapists would launch into optimistic, encouraging interpretations of the man's experience. You know, such as, "Just look at how much you learned in that relationship!" Or maybe retrofitted philosophical cushioning, such as, "She just wasn't the one," or, "That just means there is someone better out there."

But more and more these days I resist the temptation to try to make the great mysteries of the human condition less mysterious. Because, to this man, this woman is like someone holding a winning lottery ticket who, implacably, inexplicably, puts the ticket in a jewelry box for posterity. But never cashes it.

And no explanation is ever going to explain that. And no philosophical schmooze fest is ever going to make that OK with the man. So, as the session ends, I take the risk. "I agree with you," I say.

"Agree with what?" he says.

"I think you are going to die not understanding why you and (name) didn't make it."

Yeah, yeah, I know: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. But, for now, I want to help this man respect the fact that one of those lemons whopped him like a cannon shot square in the chest and broke his heart.

And he'll never know why.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling Wellness Center in Las Vegas and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at skalas@reviewjournal.com.