“It’ll Pass”

By Natalie McCarty

mong my friends, I’ve earned a notorious reputation for having watched practically every TV show and movie ever made. Maintaining this extensive viewing catalog necessitates avoiding continuous rewatching of my favorite shows or movies — though, I must confess, Twilight stands as the exception to that rule (with the current Letterboxd count for that movie alone hovering around nineteen rewatches this year… give or take… probably give…). While I have a long list of favorite shows that I periodically revisit, including Sex and the City, Gilmore Girls, Glee, Girls, and Game of Thrones, there’s one show that holds a special place: Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag, which I make a point to rewatch every year.

Each year that I rewatch it, I seemingly relate more and more; however, this year upon my umpteenth rewatch of Fleabag, I found myself understanding it on a whole new level that left me genuinely shocked. I felt changed, even, by a show that I’ve seen at least ten times now.

Waller-Bridge undeniably possesses a masterful way with words. Each monologue in the show is poignant, deeply relatable, memorable, and incredibly effective. Even with multiple viewings, something new always manages to capture my attention. Strangely enough, I’ve listened to the confession that her character, Fleabag, gives to the Hot Priest countless times, but it was only during this rewatch that it truly managed to sit with me, leaving a profound impact.

Fleabag tearfully confesses the following:

“I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”

The subsequent moment is undeniably iconic and serves as the highly-anticipated climax of the second season of the show. Perhaps, it’s why this particular speech doesn’t always stand out as much to me–I’m always too busy anticipating the next second. However, during this rewatch, it felt like Phoebe Waller-Bridge, through her confessional, was directly confessing the sins straight from my heart: the yearning not just to be loved but to be genuinely seen and known. The desire for someone not just to coexist with but to live for, beside, and next to.

The universal truth is that no one wants to be alone; it’s not in our nature. Yet, isn’t it peculiar that almost all young women find themselves navigating the waters of solitude? This shared experience, the essence of being alone, gives birth to exceptional shows like Sex and the City and Fleabag. These tales unfold as narratives of women in their twenties, not just fighting for a place in the world but striving for a place in someone’s heart. It’s about being etched into someone’s mind, hopes, plans, and future. The resonance of these stories lies in their reflection of a shared quest for connection and belonging.

I believe that’s something many of us are hesitant to admit. Personally, I don’t mind being single; in fact, I much prefer it to being with someone I have to settle for. Dating, for me, is an enjoyable experience of meeting new people and learning about their stories. However, what I do find challenging is the apprehension that comes with building a new relationship — one that might mirror ones of the past, or worse, be something entirely different, frightening, and new.

The uncertainty and unfamiliarity can be both daunting and intimidating, emotions that are confronted with a later monologue delivered by the Priest: “I was taught if we’re born with love, then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot, it feeling right. When it feels right, it’s easy. But I’m not sure that’s true. It takes strength to know what’s right. And love isn’t something that weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is… when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.”

So, in turn, when you lose someone, when the love just doesn’t exist anymore, doesn’t it feel like a total loss and devastation of hope? Isn’t it akin to a kind of death, but one where they continue living, and so do you, only the versions of yourselves that existed together are both gone, and life has evolved, people have changed, yet the ghosts of your past linger on?

Isn’t it intriguing how all those things you used to wear around each other or eat together suddenly leave a weird taste at the thought? All those things you liked together and hated together and raged all about, all those things you listened to and bands you liked and tickets you bought together, jokes you told–everything becomes tainted at the mere remembrance. That envisioned life you wanted together, the memories, now serve as painful reminders of what could have been, should’ve been, might’ve been, or almost was.

The Priest says it better and simpler than maybe any of us could: “Love is awful. It’s painful. Frightening. It makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself, distance yourself from the other people in your life. Makes you selfish, makes you creepy, makes you obsessed with your hair. Makes you cruel. Makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It’s all any of us want and it’s hell when we get there. So it’s no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own.”

Love is a scary thing. It’s a hard thing to have, it’s even harder to let go. And sometimes you can just let it go. Even if you still love them. Sometimes it’s just not right anymore, or maybe it never was, but you did still love each other.

It’s this whole final moment of the show that really encapsulates the essence for me where Fleabag says “You know, the worst thing is that I fucking love you. I love you.” Cutting off the coming response, she hits him with the “No, no don’t. No, let’s just leave that out there just for a second on its own. I love you.” And without skipping a beat, he returns with the “It’ll pass.”

It’s the one line from Fleabag that has always stood out to me. The whole “It’ll pass.” Two simple words, yet a whole lifetime of meaning. Nothing he said was cruel or untrue, yet it’s absolutely devastating and gut-wrenching isn’t it? “I love you,” “It’ll pass.”

And the worst part is that it will indeed pass. But why should it? Why must it? Why will it? Why does it?