He asked why I always seemed half-in. Why I’d smile with my whole face but hold something back with my body. Why I wouldn’t let him pick me up from the airport or leave a toothbrush at his place. He asked gently. He wasn’t angry. Just curious.

I wanted to tell him the truth. But the truth was layered and old and full of things I hadn’t said out loud before.

It’s not easy to explain the ways love gets tangled with fear when that’s all you’ve ever known. I didn’t grow up learning that love meant safety. I learned that it meant waiting for the shift. That moment when the room goes quiet and no one says what they’re really feeling, but everyone feels it. The moment you go from laughing to wondering if you’ll pay for it later.

So I learned to stay alert. I learned to carry my own weight. I got good at keeping an exit plan, even in rooms that looked warm. That wasn’t about not wanting closeness. I wanted it so much it hurt. But I needed to know I could still breathe if everything disappeared. I needed to believe I’d survive the silence if it returned.

There are people who step into love like it’s a language they’ve always spoken. I’m not one of them. For me, it’s more like learning a dialect I never knew I had the right to use. The kind of love I understand best is the one where no one raises their voice and no one disappears for days. It’s the kind where I can exhale without asking for permission.

I never meant to hold him at a distance. That wasn’t the point. The distance was how I kept myself safe while I tried to believe that maybe this time, it could be different.

He didn’t say much after I explained all that. Just took my hand and held it a little tighter. I think that was the first time I let both feet rest on the floor.