Well, Actually

by Mazey Eddings

The more he pulled away, the faster I fell head over heels for him in that way that feels as natural as breathing when you’re twenty-one and untaught and it’s the first time anyone shows interest in you, then snatches it away. In

I spent my early twenties dimming myself down, making myself as palatable as possible for the people I was dating in the hopes that they’d tolerate me enough to stick around.

Growing up, I’d become accustomed to this feeling, my voice not strong enough, my thoughts not interesting enough, to pull the split attention of my parents. Of anyone.

Being young and tenderhearted was such a fucking curse.

Someone seeing my sharp, prickly edges and gleefully asking for more. But that’s not how it works, not for people like me. It’s fun and games and an exercise in sparring until it becomes too much work, too many minefields to navigate the second things get a little bit real.

“I like listening to you. I like never knowing what out-of-pocket thing you’re going to say next. I like hearing about your ideas and your thoughts and then reading how you piece them together. I like that you’re a little bit feral and that sometimes you let me get away with teasing you.”

I wanted so badly to be the object of that much want, to cup it in my hands, dive headfirst into being needed.

I am tough. And I’m sick of having to be. I’m sick of having to choke down my feelings, fend for myself.

deserve softness, goddammit. I deserve tender moments and gentle caresses and whispered sweet nothings. I deserve someone, somewhere, wanting to like me for me and not the hardened veneer I gloss my vulnerability with.

Why was I so easy to leave? What is it about me that’s so simple to forget?