I feel so much for him that sometimes it feels safer to pretend I don’t. The emotions come in waves, strong and sudden, and instead of leaning into them, I find myself stepping back, creating distance, putting walls where doors should be. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I care so deeply it scares me. When the feelings start to rise, when my heart starts to soften, when I feel that quiet pull toward him, something inside me panics. I retreat. I go quiet. I protect myself from something that isn’t hurting me, but feels like it could if I lose control.

I push him away not because he’s unwanted, but because he matters too much. Because the idea of letting someone see how much I feel feels vulnerable in a way I’m not used to anymore. I’ve learned how to survive disappointment, how to guard my heart, how to keep my emotions contained. But with him, containment feels impossible. The feelings slip through the cracks. They show up in the way I think about him when he’s not around, in the way my chest tightens when he gets close, in the way I want to reach for him and run from him at the exact same time.

That’s the part that confuses me the most. Because I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling is love, or something very close to it. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s not even reckless or chaotic. It’s steady, heavy, and undeniable. But I second guess it because I can’t say the words out loud. Because admitting it would make it real, and real things come with risk… Real things can hurt… Real things require trust, and trust means surrendering the illusion of control.

So instead, I hold it inside. I feel everything, but show only pieces. I care deeply, but act distant. I love quietly, but protect myself loudly. And sometimes I wonder if the very thing I’m running from is the thing my heart has been searching for all along.