I don’t reply.
And I try to shove them down in my mind.
The shift happens slowly. So slowly I don’t notice.
At first, it’s just texts. Then calls. His voice low in my ear, slipping into the quiet parts of my day like it belongs there. Like it’s always been there.
He asks what I’m doing. What I’m wearing. What I’m eating.
Simple questions.Normalquestions. Except he remembers the answers. He follows up. He notices when something changes. He wants photos. My meals. My outfits. Me—curled up in bed at night, hair messy, skin bare, looking like something unguarded and soft.
I hesitate the first time. My thumb hovers over the screen. Something in my chest tightens, a sharp flicker of—why?
But it passes. Because nothing about him feels careless. Because nothing about him feels like a threat.
So I send them.
And nothing bad happens. No consequence. No moment where I regret it. He just… responds.
Not with control. Not with demands.
With attention. With focus. Like he’s actuallyseeingme. Like the details matter.
LikeImatter.
My body softens every time I hear from him. It’s immediate. Automatic. The tightness I didn’t realize I was holding eases. My shoulders drop. My breathing slows. The constant noise in my head—questions, doubts, spirals—just quiets.
Like something slots into place.
It’s easier when someone else decides.
The thought slips in so cleanly I almost miss it.
The way I don’t have to think about the small things anymore—the things that would normally loop in my head, over and over, until I’ve exhausted myself trying to land on the “right” choice.
I just ask his opinion.
And he answers.
And it works.
I send him a photo of my dinner one night.
Something quick. Easy. One of those microwave meals I grabbed without thinking, all plastic packaging and vague promises printed on the front.
I didn’t even really look at it. Didn’t care. I just needed something fast.
There’s a pause. Long enough for me to notice it.
Then—
Soren:
You’re going to eat that?
My stomach drops instantly.
It’s stupid. It’s just a question. But heat creeps up my neck anyway, a flush of something that feels uncomfortably close to embarrassment.