Three awkward weeks go by and Harry gallantly asks when they’re going to “move past this.” They fight and stop talking. In time, Harry calls and calls to apologize and Sally finally picks up. Harry tosses us his sorrys like a tennis serve but still can’t say anything that matters. You watch this scene and you know exactly why Sally gives in and answers the phone. Because part of her still believes in the best heart of Harry. Part of her believes that they belong together, knows that Harry feels the same beneath a thick layer of blubbery cowardice and hopes to God he’s called because he realized that.

He doesn’t say that though. And as a woman probably should when she’s tired of being friends with a man she actually loves, Sally tells him she can’t do this anymore. “I am not your consolation prize, Harry.”
Unlike in the real world, in Nora Ephron’s universe, shortly thereafter, Harry takes a long walk and reviews a montage of their relationship together. Reconsiders every poignant thing Sally ever said to him and eventually runs to tell her he loves her….on New Years Eve. And he doesn’t just confess his love, he lists the specific endearing traits that have convinced him over the years that he can’t live without her. And they rush off to get married three months later because they can’t not be together another minute. Swoon.

It’s a perfect, adorable ending that doesn’t necessarily do us much good. It’s like an outdoors manual that, at the last chapter, shifts gears to teach you how to start a fire and find food on the moon. What am I supposed to do with this?