I say I want connection.
I romanticise it. I write about it. I manifest it into the universe like, “Please send me someone emotionally available, kind, hot, and obsessed with me.”

And then someone actually likes me.

Not just flirting for fun, but genuinely showing up.
They text first. They check in. They make plans that sound… stable.
And my brain goes: “Abort mission.”

Suddenly I’m editing every message.
Second-guessing emojis.
Pulling back, not because I don’t like them, but because they seem to like me back.

Which, frankly, feels like a jump scare.

I’m not avoidant in the cold, detached way.
I feel things… quickly, deeply, sometimes inconveniently.
I just don’t always know how to show it.

So instead, I joke. I act chill. I underplay it.
Because saying something real makes it real.
And real means risk.

It’s not disinterest. It’s defence.
A habit built over years of trial and heartbreak.

Because somewhere along the way, I learnt this tiny, unhelpful lesson:
if someone sees all of me, not just the witty or confident or sturdy bits, they might leave.

So I ration my vulnerability.
I show the curated version.
The “I’m fine” version.
The one that’s easy to like, even if it’s not the whole story.

I’m trying to unlearn that now.

To remind myself that it’s possible to be both wanted and safe.
That being loved doesn’t have to mean losing control.
That I don’t need to wait for rejection before I let someone get close.

Maybe one day I’ll stop flinching at kindness.
Or maybe I’ll just keep writing about it until it feels less foreign.

Either way, I’m learning that letting people in isn’t weakness.
It’s hope.
And I’m not ready to give up on that just yet.