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Not conditional, Monica thought, that wasn't the right word. Conscious? Self-conscious?
She was trying to write her vows but none of the words she knew quite encompassed what she wanted to say, and even that was only a small portion of what she truly felt for Chandler Bing.
It wouldn't be so bad that she could hardly articulate her feelings if Chandler wasn't so prone to easy monologues and spouting poetry whenever the chips were down and he needed to speak about her or their relationship. And he'd get to do it twice, at least.
Men had it so easy at weddings. All they had to do was stand there and tell a crowd of people about their feelings. And then announce to the same group of people, almost the exact same words unless they'd left something out, at the reception. Women only had one chance to express the multitude of their emotions in one nerve-wracking go, all the while teetering on stilettoed heels and squeezed into lycra spandex.
With only one opportunity to tell him how she felt and needing to do so in a clear and concise manner, none of their inside jokes and silent communication included, Monica had to make it perfect.
Only, she'd run out of superlatives to describe her would-be husband and all of them sounded forced and corny, bordering on insincere.
So she'd started trying to figure out what Chandler was not.
His love was not limited nor limiting.
Chandler didn't hide his affection or discourage her when she was stressed or competitive. He may roll his eyes, but he didn't bemoan her interests even though he did not share them.
Then again, he never had.
"Hey, Mon," Chandler announced as he pushed through her apartment door. "Are you sure you don't want to come the game with us today?"
Monica shook her head. She was in the middle of making a list of all the things she needed to purchase so she could spend the day cleaning her apartment, quite deeply. Phoebe had just moved out and while Monica was a little heartbroken over the way Phoebe had left, she was excited to spend the weekend reorganising her apartment. She was going to get it Monica clean for the first time in months and with no one else living with her, she would be able to keep it that way. If only the boys next door didn't keep barging in unbidden and didn't keep moving things around for fun.
"No thanks," she barely looked up from her list. "I've got a lot of things to do."
"Need to shop for supplies this morning?" At that, Monica's eyes flicked up from where her pen scratched paper to see Chandler stab his shoulder into the doorjamb, his ankles crossed as though he was settling in for a long conversation.
Monica nodded, trying not to let his distracting presence annoy her. "That's what I'm planning out."
Chandler hummed lowly. "Want a partner?"
"What?" her eyes snapped up, her whole body turning rigid at the thought of his company. Not that she didn't like Chandler, he was her best friend. But he was annoying and goofy and she always found herself laughing more than actually completing the tasks she wanted to accomplish when she was in his presence.
"I'm working on my diploma in trolley cart pushing," he added hopefully, before lowering his voice melodically. "And I won't even salute like I did last time. That was wrong of me and all you were trying to do was get the shopping done quickly and efficiently."
Monica rolled her eyes at the memory. She had been a tad controlling that day, barking out orders. Chandler hadn't been wrong when he had teased her about her behaviour, although she hadn't seen his teasing as anything but cruel mocking at the time.
"No saluting," Monica agreed, "but you weren't wrong. What about we split up, take opposite sides of the store. Make it a competition?"
Chandler snorted. "I bet I win."
Monica laughed loudly, her vision blurring a little as her cheeks crinkled. "What do I get when I win?"
"You," he enunciated, "will make Joe and myself dinner for a week when I win. And if I somehow stumble and break my ankle, forfeiting because of injury, then you can use the afternoon while we're at the game to clean my apartment too. And," he added as though tacking on a better prize, the cocky glint in his eye signalling that Chandler didn't think she'd win their competition and was so confident he offered to up the ante. "Joey and I won't come over uninvited for a whole week."
Monica shook her head at the memory. She never did ask Chandler what on earth he'd been thinking. Of course, she had won their trolley race, she knew the cleaning supply aisle with her eyes closed. And she had a list in aisle order. Plus, the punishments he'd picked were gifts for her anyway, she loved cooking, and he'd let her clean their apartment regardless that she didn't need to.
The week of lonely breakfasts - until she'd caved and called Phoebe over, and then on the Thursday knocked on Chandler's door to invite the boys over - had solidified Monica's disinterest in spending her mornings alone. So, her vehement insistence that they could come over for breakfast had definitely been scooped up happily and taken for granted at every opportunity, Monica didn't care. She liked the company.
He competed with her on that occasion in a way that made her enjoy the moment more than she normally would have. He gave her a run for her money at ping-pong, or at least, Monica let him think he did, taking it easy on him when they played. Their friends never let them be on the same team at Scrabble or Trivia, because together, they were unstoppable. When they were on opposite teams, like for Pictionary, when Chandler would goad her as though he got some twisted amusement from her angry blush, or wanted her three days' worth of apologetic offerings as she repented for throwing a plate at him.
The competitions hadn't ended when she had walked into his hotel room in London. In fact, the both of them having a competitive streak a mile wide had added to the heat between them. That night had been their best competition to date, egging each other on in the hopes of being first to make the other's knees weak or exhausted from the exertion.
"Chandler, what are you doing?" Monica giggled as her best friend pushed her over the arm of the couch, her back landing against the seat cushions, his body covering hers immediately.
"We only have one day left before Rachel and Ross get back," his warm breath washed over her cheek as he pressed a hot kiss beneath her ear. "I'm making the most of it."
"Trying to beat our London record?" Monica teased, knowing they'd set the bar high that night, somehow. She shivered at how easily the term 'our' slipped from her mouth. It sounded right, she couldn't help but think.
Chandler rolled his hips against hers and Monica keened, not even doubting that the two of them would match that night. She wove her fingers into Chandler's soft hair, bringing his sweet lips back to hers.
"We're pretty good," he whispered, grinning down at her, his blue eyes shining happily. "I bet we could."
The playfulness of their relationship was something Monica cherished, she'd never had a boyfriend who was her best friend until Chandler, and Monica hadn't realised the intimacy she'd been missing, the way she was so comfortable with Chandler, and how she could tell him anything. She loved that she never seemed to tire of him, even when he was being infuriating.
Monica had never been less self-conscious or afraid of being herself as she was when she was with Chandler. But how was she supposed to announce to their friends and family that when she was with him, none of them mattered?
How could she explain that Paul, Richard, Pete, and all the others in between, had laughed at her sock drawer and made her feel small and ridiculous about her cleaning methods, if she ever felt comfortable enough to reveal them at all? Let alone that Chandler would get his stopwatch out and time her folding skills, printing out certificates for her that he'd tack on the fridge, meaningless to everyone else. Those stupid little notes with the thorny borders and proud lettering flustered her like nothing else and Monica liked that it was their secret. Everyone teased Chandler for dating the competitive freak of the group, but the man embraced that part of her, encouraged it and treasured it. He cheered her on in football games against Ross and asked inquired about her winnings when she went bargain hunting with the girls.
No one seemed to realise that Chandler was just as competitive as she was, only he could control it a bit better, laying off on a bet when he knew he couldn't win against her.
He was a perfect gentleman, allowing her to be the neurotic one if she was in the mood, until she asked him not to be. Those times were magic too, whether it was in a pillow fight or a race up the stairs or in the bedroom.
Monica tapped her pen restlessly against the notepad she'd placed on the table. She couldn't shake the feeling she was missing something, another word that was just out of her realm of knowledge. There was a lack of insecurity - that was the word! - when she was with Chandler. She didn't doubt him. Her anxiety didn't grow when he was five minutes late. Monica didn't worry that he didn't reciprocate her feelings, she'd never been more certain of anything - not simply in a relationship, but in her job, with her firneds, too - than she was of Chandler's affection. They talked about their relationship and they fostered it, protected it, as though it was a flame in a drafty room, a light they didn't want to lose.
"I love you."
"I know."
Monica wasn't sure when that became their typical call and response, but she loved it, the certainty of their relationship. They were two people who had been starved of love for so long, certain they didn't deserve to ever find it, yet they had found each other and loved so openly that neither of them questioned how deeply they were cared for. It wasn't the flowers he sent to her workplace or the way she'd drop by to have lunch with him. It was smaller than that. Imperceptible acts that made the other's life easier, not competitively grand gestures, but signals they were cared for, signs that their affection was uncontested and unparalleled.
"Chandler," Monica whispered, leaning her elbows on the back of the couch. He looked so peaceful, childlike, unscarred, as he snored. "Chandler, wake up."
He hummed sleepily.
"Come to bed, babe," she coaxed his hand into hers and stepped around the place he rested, trying to pull him from under the blanket. "You don't need to sleep on the couch."
"Got lonely without me?" he slurred, a smug undercurrent colouring his tone.
Fingers brushed through her curls, his soft fingertips lulling her to sleep.
"I'm not sick," her voice betrayed her, cracking and whispered.
Chandler hummed, disbelieving, stroking her temple relaxingly. "Go to sleep, honey."
"I made you dinner, Mon." Chandler blushed as he removed the lid of the pot to reveal a rice dish that looked as though he'd used saffron but smelt of garlic. "You've had a long day. It was the least I could do."
"What if we made the room a study for you to write it?"
"I called your mother and told her you wouldn't be able to make it to dinner tonight," Chandler said.
"Thank god," Moncia slumped into the Barcalounger. "Was she mad?"
"Don't know," Chandler shrugged. "I hung up."
At that thought, Monica laughed until her sides ached.
"Who was that on the phone, Chandler?"
Her fiance beamed at her as he put the phone back in the cradle. He'd been talking when she left to do groceries and had only just finished as she walked back into their apartment.
"Dad."
"Want me to vacuum or mop. I'm doing one, no arguments."
"I can't believe Joey challenged you like that," Monica baulked. "Come on, you've got me on your team now. And we're going to win."
Monica sighed. Her and Chandler were two inherently same souls; competitive, broken, hopeful souls. He was her happy ending and her best friend all in one. But to say that in her vows would require an explanation of their history; individual and collective, that she didn't have time for.