I love you.

I want to be with you.

Being with you scares me.

You haven’t done something wrong.

I experience all interactions in the same way.

Same word.

Terrifying.

Bystanders. Strangers. Friends.

Everyone.

There’s never been a time

where people felt familiar enough

not to also feel dangerous.

I don’t mean physically.

I mean existentially.

Like my sense of self

could be scrambled

by trying to stay in sync

with someone else’s truth.

That’s the paradox.

I love you.

I want to hold space for you.

I want to see the world the way you see it

and not lose my footing in the process.

I’ve never known how to stay connected

without feeling like I’m risking collapse.

That’s not about you.

That’s about the cost of proximity

for someone who built their safety

in solo mode.

I keep trying. Keep showing up.

Keep attempting to hold the tension

between who I am

and who I become when I’m with you.

I get it wrong sometimes.

I over-rely on what I know.

I try to control the variable

that makes me feel most vulnerable.

Usually that means words.

Precision.

Clarity.

Concepts I can hold.

Emotions move too fast for me.

Or too slow.

I name what’s happening.

Instead of feeling what’s happening.

Sometimes that lands.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

When it doesn’t,

I don’t feel misunderstood.

I feel dangerous.

To you. To us.

That’s when the loop forms.

I try harder.

You pull back.

I name more.

You feel less seen.

Still, I love you.

Still, I want to be here.

Even when I don’t know how.

That’s what makes this love real.

Not the ease.

Not the comfort.

The willingness to stay

even when the signal is scrambled.

Even when I’m scrambling it.

I don’t love you cleanly.

I love you clearly.

That’s the paradox I’m learning to hold.

To stay close in it.

Even when I feel far.

Even when I feel off.

Even when I don’t know how to do this

in the way that makes you feel most safe.

I’m here.

In all the ways I know how to be.

Trying to stretch into more.

Not for me.

For us.