love, in absentia

Over the years, I’ve come to realize I am not a casual lover. I care too deeply, fall too hard. There’s no in-between on the spectrum of my love—it’s either utter devotion or complete disinterest.

That’s why I keep my feelings close, guarded. So I don’t devote myself to people who take more than they give, or those who conflate lust and love.

But sometimes, someone comes along and undoes all that. Someone whose presence feels almost too familiar—like meeting a memory you’ve never lived before. They feel steady, safe, and make you forget why your walls were up in the first place.

He’s gentle in a way that disarms me, steady in the places where I crumble. There’s no absence in his silence, only peace. He’s kind without trying to be. Meeting him felt like finally coming up for air after years of drowning.

And so, naturally, I’m terrified of losing him.

The distance is the least of my worries. What I fear most is my own mind, and the way it perpetually prepares for loss.

Every day, I fight against the same old fears: that he’ll wake up and realize that I’m too much. That someone easier will appear. Someone who doesn’t overthink every word, who doesn’t need constant reassurance, someone who isn’t me.

I imagine him growing bored of me, the messages slowly fading, affection draining so quietly I won’t notice until it’s gone.

I try to quiet these thoughts, but fear is a patient companion, it has a way of staying close. It sits beside me, whispering what-ifs, reminding me how easily love can turn into memory.

It isn’t the distance I fear.

It’s losing the one person who makes the world feel gentle again.