Pride and Prejudice and the Three Movements in Every Love Story

Tyler turned left into the steeply descend­ing side street and walked on towards his house, sud­denly painfully aware of how his descent into this road mir­rored that sink­ing feel­ing his emo­tions were heav­ing with after the break-up he had just ini­ti­ated with his girl­friend. It was as if he had just woken up from the numb daze that had clouded the last hour of his walk home. The busy sounds, sights and smells of the oth­er­wise colour­ful route he had taken had passed by him, never reg­is­ter­ing in his senses. His last mem­ory: that of watch­ing Claire stand­ing up from where they had been sit­ting at their favourite ter­race, the strain of hold­ing back her tears clearly show­ing in her red­den­ing eyes and the ten­sion spread­ing around her mouth. She had picked up her hand­bag and turned around with the same ease with which she had arrived not a quar­ter of an hour ear­lier. He had watched her walk off into the bustling mar­ket until the crowd had swal­lowed her com­pletely, as if con­fis­cat­ing her slen­der frag­ile beauty from the man to whom she had given her heart so uncon­di­tion­ally seven weeks ear­lier.
As he tor­mented him­self by replay­ing this mem­ory over and over again, he started to ques­tion why he had decided to destroy their union in the first place. Yesterday, it had all seemed so log­i­cal in his cold and effi­cient rea­son­ing. He wasn’t yet ready to set­tle down (cliché num­ber one). He felt that he still wanted to meet other women (cliché num­ber two). The thought of chil­dren enter­ing his oth­er­wise sim­ple life filled him with dread (and there was num­ber three).
He reached his house and walked up the small steps to his front door, stung by the sud­den aware­ness of being alone, truly alone. Not the phys­i­cal lone­li­ness of not hav­ing her at his side, but that aching over­whelm­ing lone­li­ness that now impris­oned his heart. He turned the key in its slot and won­dered, for the first time in a whole week, whether this was really what he wanted. He had made his choice, but it now seemed so petty and imma­ture. He had bit­ten the bul­let to get what he wanted and now he no longer wanted it. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it. He closed his eyes and all he could see were her eyes, how they drowned in his gaze. And her lips, when she would sing. How they danced and mes­mer­ized him every time he had looked at her.
The pain of this vision threw him off-center and his legs buck­led. He fell to the floor. Then he realised his mis­take. It was never his mind to which he should have lis­tened. It should have been his heart. He should have let it sing.
Fighting back a wave of tears, he took out his phone and speed-dialed her number.

(Decided to try this even though I never write romance.)

He repli­cated her over and over again until she stood there in the hun­dreds. She flick­ered in and out of exis­tence; atoms form­ing, recom­bin­ing then fail­ing as the machine strug­gled and lagged try­ing to han­dle the load of so many com­mand strings. Julia waved, shrugged, gig­gled and smirked at him from every cor­ner of the lab.
Her hun­dred voices spoke in a bro­ken, cas­cad­ing cho­rus: “Wow, this is awe­some Peter!”
Damn her. If he’d never met her, his research would be fin­ished by now. Instead he had fol­lowed her to Venice, tried liv­ing her Bohemian lifestyle, and put his research on hold. It had been eight months of erratic behav­ior, tem­per tantrums, impetu­ous jour­neys with­out prepa­ra­tion and con­stant dis­or­der.
The repli­ca­tor blue-screened and he aborted the pro­gram. One by one the Julia iter­a­tions shut down, van­ish­ing in flashes of thin blue light. The lab felt too quiet, too empty; ster­ile in its flat blue-white walls and pre­cisely arranged rows of instru­ments and desk­tops. The smell of ozone from the repli­ca­tor mixed with…
“What is that?” he sniffed the air, stand­ing to move closer to the repli­ca­tor pad. “Chanel #5. I bought that for you,” he said aloud half-expecting a reply and sud­denly missing—no hor­ri­bly long­ing for—the way she’d enthu­si­as­ti­cally embrace him in her happy moments, wrap­ping her slen­der arms around his shoul­ders and kiss­ing him hard on the lips.

What about Romeo & Juliet? (I know…you said "almost".)