I’ve always thought that navigating the world of relationships is a bit like scanning the radio waves for a good station. Ninety-nine percent of the time, you’re searching blindly — spinning the tuner with aimless fingers, seeking out a solid frequency amidst endless static. Occasionally, you might stumble upon one that comes in — not perfectly, not precisely, but clear enough to make out most of the words of whatever song they’re playing at the time. To sing along for a few muffled tracks before moving on in search of a better fit.
These stations are our casual relationships.
Flings.
Acquaintances.
Ships passing in the night.
Good enough to pass the time, but ultimately not worth sticking around for.
And so, you spin on.
Rarely — so rarely, you begin to think it might be an illusion or an urban legend or a figment of your imagination — your tuner will land on a frequency that shocks you with its clarity. A broadcast that matches your tastes so perfectly, it blasts straight into your soul, vibrates you down to your core until every atom shakes with the sheer bliss of sound washing over you. A startling pulse of pure energy.
These stations are our soulmates.
Best friends.
True loves.
The ones with whom you feel that elusiveclickof camaraderie and natural connection — the kind that cannot be forced or fabricated with any amount of time or effort. A wavelength you could ride until your last breath, content in the knowledge that nothing else will ever echo quite as perfectly in the chambers of your heart.
For me… there was only ever one person who made me feel like that. Right now, he’s standing six feet — and an emotional infinity — away from me.
Archer.
Freaking.
Reyes.
Last summer, when his frequency went dark without warning… when I found myself swimming solo through a world of meaningless static… a part of me shut down for good.
Closed off all connections.
Cut away all incoming signals.
I resigned myself to a life without love. Somehow, sitting in solitary silence felt safer than risking another erroneous bond. Being alone seemed infinitely smarter than letting someone in, only to get hurt again.
Better isolated by my own choices than cast aside by someone else’s.
It wasn’t until I met Oliver Beaufort last fall that I even considered opening up again. And, looking back, letting him in wasn’t really a conscious decision I made, an intentional act I undertook. It happened so fast —hehappened so fast — I didn’t have time to put up any real resistance. He shot into my life like a brilliant beam of light in the darkness, chasing away my shadows with his sunny disposition and that southern twang and those charming manners before I realized it was happening.
And he stayed.
Despite the darkness, despite the damage. He waded straight into the static, grabbed me by the hand, and coaxed me back into the music. Every day since, for eight long months, he’s done his best to prove everything I thought I knew about relationships entirely wrong.
I used to believe passion and pain were intrinsically intertwined, that you could not have one without the other. But it turns out, devotion does not have to split your soul in half in order to be real. Just because a heart can break, does not mean it should. And those all-consuming passions? They only do one thing in the end.
Consume you.
Far better to care for someone in careful moderation, without losing who you are in the process. Awful as it may be to admit, as much as I’ve ever allowed Ollie to adore me… I’m not sure I’ve ever let him all the way in. And I’m not sure I can ever truly love him — not in the way he deserves to be loved, anyway.
It’s not his fault. I’m simply not capable of that kind of commitment.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.