There’s a fine line between making a grand romantic gesture and being a creeper.

If an ex showed up on your front lawn with a boom box over her head playing a Peter Gabriel song, would you run out in wild abandon and take her back, or would you call the cops?

If an ex scaled your fire escape like Richard Gere in “Pretty Woman,” would you lick her face and rescue her right back, or would you mace her ass?

I am an eternal romantic condemned to live life trapped in a rom-com snow globe. I blame Hollywood for such lofty and unattainable expectations. Happily ever after doesn’t exist. It never did. So why do I keep thinking someone would come back for me? Am I afraid to accept reality?

Nobody is going to write my name in the sky or snatch me out of a corner and ask me to dance.

I put myself into this corner, and I suppose only I can pull myself out after I’ve silenced my demons and forgiven my trespasses.

Until then, I will wait as the dust settles for my snow globe to shake once again.