Romance without god(s) is an interesting thing. The end of it, especially, I think. For a believer, when something ends, there is someone to blame. To be angry with. To “lean” on. To rage at.
My acceptance of my own atheism coincided with a rocky and over-emotional marital relationship that often found me fighting the urge to beg, demand and negotiate my situation with some sentient fairy god-person. Sitting on the cold severe bathroom floor, seven months into the hormonal nightmare that is pregnancy, asking anyone, myself, Bob, “Whoever is Working the Controls” to make me a better wife. It’s quite the flat realization that those controls, coincidentally, are in my own hands.
Instead, I’ve (we’ve?) been left, then and now, to wax philosophical with only myself about decision and regret. Empty surrounding air my audience, offering no response to the questions of love and connection that plague us all.