I know exactly what Aaron’s talking about. I know it because I feel it too. That moment when I suddenly disappear, when my mind slips off into some place that’s dark and quiet and safe, yeah, I know it’s happening.
And I know he sees it. And I hate that he sees it. Because if Aaron sees it, then that means I’m not as good at hiding as I thought.
And that’s not so good.
I’ve spent most of my life learning how to disappear. It’s a survival skill, the kind you develop when you realize that the world is going to disappoint you over and over again.
When you realize that needing something from people, love, comfort, safety, just makes you vulnerable. So you stop needing. You stop wanting.
And you learn how to fold yourself up into something small and quiet and unnoticeable.
And Aaron?
Aaron makes it impossible to stay hidden. Because he notices everything.
I try not to let him see too much.
I try to keep it light. Laugh at his jokes. Make conversation. Smile when I don’t feel like smiling. But Aaron sees through it. He always has. And it’s unnerving. It’s exhausting.
And when I hit that breaking point, when it feels like I can’t keep the mask in place any longer, I shut down. I pull back. I slip away.
And Aaron knows. He always knows. That’s the problem. Because Aaron isn’t like others. Other men wouldn’t notice. Other men wouldn’t care. But Aaron cares. And that’s why it’s so hard.
He sees me, really sees me, and it makes me feel exposed in a way that’s almost painful. I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to let him keep looking at me like that without feeling like I’m about to unravel. Because the truth is, Aaron is dangerous.
Not because he’s trying to take anything from me. But because he’s offering something I don’t know how to receive. Safety. Comfort. Love. And I’ve never known how to accept any of that without wondering what it’s going to cost me.
So when Aaron asks me where I go. When he asks me why I suddenly disappear. I want to tell him the truth. I want to say, I go to the place where no one can touch me. I go to the place where I don’t have to feel anything.
Because feeling things, that’s the part that scares me. That’s the part that has always led to disappointment.
But Aaron doesn’t want to hurt me. He isn’t asking for anything. He’s just…offering. And that makes me want to run. Because what if I take it and it disappears?
What if I let Aaron in, really let him in, and then he decides I’m not worth it after all? What if he realizes that I’m not as put together as I pretend to be? I can’t take that risk. I can’t survive that kind of loss.
So when I feel myself getting too close. When I feel the warmth of Aaron’s attention curling around me, soft and steady, I pull back. I go cold. I go quiet. Because that’s the only thing that’s ever kept me safe.
And Aaron, God bless him, He doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry. He doesn’t get angry when I suddenly shut down. He just stands there, waiting, watching, hurting.
And that’s what kills me. Because I know it hurts him. I hate that I keep doing it to him. But I don’t know how to stop. Because if I let Aaron in, if I let him really see me, then that’s it. That’s all of me. And what if he decides he doesn’t want it? What if I give him everything, and it’s not enough?
That’s why I disappear. That’s why I go quiet. That’s why I let myself slip back behind the walls I built so carefully.
It’s not because I don’t care. It’s not because I don’t want to be there with him. It’s because caring feels like handing someone a loaded gun and hoping they won’t pull the trigger.
And maybe that’s why Aaron’s love scares me so much. Because he’s not holding a gun. He’s just standing there, hands wide open, waiting.
And that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. And Aaron is standing at the bottom, saying, it’s okay, I’ll catch you. And God, how much I want to believe him. How much I want to just jump and see what happens.
But I can’t. Because I’ve spent too long learning how to survive. And the idea of letting someone else hold me up, the idea of trusting someone else to keep me safe, that feels impossible.
And the thing that terrifies me most? It’s starting to feel like I’m running out of reasons not to try. Because Aaron isn’t asking me to jump. He’s just…standing there, waiting.
And maybe, just maybe I’m getting tired of hiding. But what happens if I jump? What happens if I take that step, not a leap, not some dramatic free fall but just one step toward him? Would the ground beneath me still hold? Or would the old voices rush in, screaming that I’ve made a mistake?
Because those voices never really go away. The ones that say I’m too much and not enough all at once. The ones that whisper that if I open the door, someone will walk right through it and wreck everything. The voices that remind me of all the promises that have been broken.
I hear those broken promises, louder than ever. But beneath them, there’s another voice rising. Softer. Gentler. Aaron’s voice.
He doesn’t speak it out loud, but I feel it in the way he shows up. I hear it in his silence. It’s the voice that says, “You don’t have to prove anything. Just be you.”
And I don’t know what to do with that. Because I’ve spent so long learning how to fight, how to defend, how to stay two steps ahead of heartbreak.
But Aaron, he’s not trying to fight me. He’s not trying to fix me. He’s just offering something I’ve never really had: a place to rest.
And maybe that’s what trust looks like. Not a grand surrender. Not a dramatic confession. Just the tiniest decision to stay. To stay in the moment. To stay in the room. To stay in the conversation.
To stay with him.
Even when everything inside me screams to run, maybe trust is learning how to whisper back. Maybe real love doesn’t kick the door down. Maybe it just softly knocks, and waits. Not with pressure. Not with fear. Just with hope.
Like it knows you’ll open it, when you’re ready and you’re ready to stay.