There’s something I need to talk about, and I’m going to start treating this like a real blog again—like it’s my best friend.
Someone told me I give Summer from 500 Days of Summer… but more prude. And honestly? Period. Thank you for not thinking I’m easy, I’ll take that win. But it got me thinking—do I really come off that emotionally unavailable?
I mean, I get it. I am a flirt. We know this.
But it’s never calculated—it’s not about playing people. I just genuinely love the moment. The banter, the energy, the soft little spark of connection that exists for a second and then disappears. It’s light, it’s airy, it’s fun. It feels like nothing… but also kind of everything.
The problem is—I don’t really know how to go past that.
I don’t know how to deepen things.
How to let people have me.
Because being held—physically, emotionally—it’s a double-edged sword. There’s so much beauty in it, but there’s risk too. And even though the good always outweighs the bad, it still feels like stepping into something that could undo me.
And the thing is… I know feeling deeply is part of being human. Denying yourself that is basically denying yourself life. I believe that. I live by that.
But when I do feel?
I feel so deeply that it almost becomes overwhelming—like I don’t know where to put it or what to do with it.
And then there’s this disconnect. Everyone around me feels… different. Like we’re speaking different emotional languages. I want connection—I’m trying to connect—but it never quite lands the way I imagine it should.
I love the chase.
The slow burn.
The friends-to-lovers energy.
But what happens when you finally get there?
When you reach the point where something real could actually begin?
Why do I run?
And why do I run… just to turn around and feel lonely after?
I’m someone who is extraordinarily loyal—
the kind of person who would do anything for the people I love.
Yet I can’t stand texting back.
I flake on meeting up.
Avoidance becomes its own strange, sincere form of devotion somehow.
Because in my head, my love is constant. It’s unwavering. It doesn’t need proof or maintenance or daily check-ins to be real—it just is. I could go quiet for days, weeks even, and still feel the same warmth toward someone like no time has passed at all.
But that doesn’t always translate.
To other people, love is shown in the small things. The replies. The presence. The consistency. And I know that—I do know that. I’m not oblivious to it. I just… struggle to live inside of it.
Sometimes it feels like being perceived is too much. Like showing up, answering, engaging—it requires a version of me that I don’t always have access to. So I retreat. Not because I don’t care, but almost because I care too much to show up halfway.
And that’s the part that’s hard to explain—
how can someone be so full of love, and yet so hard to reach?
How can I feel everything so deeply, but express it so inconsistently?
Maybe it’s a form of self-protection.
Or maybe it’s fear—of being needed, of being known, of being held to something real and steady.
Because fleeting? Fleeting is easy.
Fleeting doesn’t ask anything of me.
But real connection—real, grounded, present love—
that requires staying.
And I’m still learning how to do that.
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