you seem pretty avoidant for someone so desperate for love

what was i actually protecting?

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April felt like a room filled with echoes that refused to fade, even after everyone had already left. Everywhere I scrolled, there it was — echoes of a line that reminded me of Olivia Rodrigo’s latest album, reshaped and repeated until it started to sound like truth instead of just a trend. It slipped into conversations, captions, and the quiet corners of midnight thoughts. It pressed gently against something I wasn’t ready to name.

“You seem pretty avoidant for someone so desperate for love.” It felt like a mirror.

I told myself it was just timing, just another fleeting internet moment that would dissolve like the others. Still, it followed me into silence, into the spaces where I usually felt safest. I started noticing how often I closed doors before anyone could even knock. How I rehearsed distance like it was a habit I couldn’t unlearn. There was a strange comfort in being unreachable.

At least nothing could break if nothing ever fully began. That’s what I told myself, over and over, until it started sounding like a belief.

Sometimes I wonder when I first learned to pull away before being held too closely. It wasn’t a single moment, more like a slow accumulation of almosts and almost-hurts. I became fluent in leaving before being left, in soft exits and unfinished sentences. There’s a quiet pride in that kind of control, even when it feels lonely. I used to convince myself that independence was strength, that distance was clarity. But deep down, there was always a question I refused to answer.

What was I actually protecting?

Maybe it wasn’t my peace the way I always claimed it was. Maybe it was my fear of being seen too clearly, too deeply, in ways I couldn’t control. There’s a difference between choosing solitude and hiding inside it. I told myself I was protecting my time and energy.

But if that were true, why did it still feel like something was missing?

Maybe I was protecting the version of me that hasn’t figured everything out yet. The one that still feels unfinished, still trying to become someone more worthy, more certain. I keep thinking that if anyone gets too close, they’ll notice the cracks I’m still trying to patch. They’ll see the hesitation, the overthinking, the parts of me that don’t feel ready. And somehow, that feels unbearable.

Or maybe I was protecting myself from disappointment. From the possibility that something could start beautifully and still end in ways I can’t predict. There’s a comfort in ending things early, before they have the chance to hurt. It gives me the illusion of control, like I’m the one deciding how things unfold. But control doesn’t always mean safety, and I think I’ve been confusing the two.

There’s also a part of me that’s afraid of being loved in a way I don’t know how to receive. Of being given something I’ve spent so long convincing myself I’m not ready for. Because if I let it in, I won’t have the excuse anymore. I won’t be able to say I’m still waiting to become someone else. I’ll have to exist as I am, incomplete and still in progress.

Nights like that bring back conversations I never finished. I think about how easy it would have been to stay a little longer, to let someone see the parts I carefully hide. Yet I remember the familiar tightening in my chest, the instinct to retreat. It always comes at the same time, right when something starts to feel real. That’s when I become distant, quieter, harder to reach.

“It’s okay, I’m fine. I like being single anyway.” And sometimes I believe it.

There’s a certain peace in solitude, in not having to explain yourself to anyone. No expectations, no disappointments, no misunderstandings waiting to happen. It’s a controlled kind of emptiness, one I’ve grown used to. But there are moments when that quiet feels too loud, when it reminds me of everything I’m avoiding. And in those moments, I can’t pretend it’s enough.

“I promise myself that I can’t date anyone until I become the woman of my dreams and have everything figured out.”

I keep telling myself I’m not ready, that I need to fix everything first. That I have to become someone more stable, more complete, before I deserve to be loved. It feels safer to delay something meaningful than to risk being seen as unfinished. So I wait, and wait, and wait, as if love requires a final draft of a person.

It’s strange, wanting something so deeply while running in the opposite direction. I crave connection in ways I rarely admit out loud. The idea of being understood feels like something soft and fragile, something I don’t know how to hold. So I keep it at a distance, convincing myself it’s safer that way. I watch people fall into love, into vulnerability, into something real. And I stay where it’s familiar, even when it feels empty. There’s a contradiction in that, one I can’t seem to resolve.

I remember times when someone tried to get close and when they stayed longer than I expected. They asked questions I wasn’t ready to answer and noticed things I tried to keep hidden. It should have felt comforting, being seen like that. Instead, it made me restless, like I was losing control of something I didn’t fully understand. I pulled away slowly at first, then all at once. And afterwards, I told myself it was the right choice. Even when it didn’t feel like it.

There’s a version of me that exists only in imagination. Someone who doesn’t hesitate, who doesn’t flinch at the thought of being known. Someone who stays, who doesn’t hesitate, who allows herself to be known. I think about her often, like she’s someone I could become. But fear keeps disguising itself as logic, making distance feel like the smarter choice.

Sometimes I wonder how many chances I’ve quietly walked away from. How many moments could have turned into something meaningful if I had stayed a little longer. It’s easier not to count them, easier to pretend they didn’t matter that much. But I can’t ignore the feeling that maybe the distance I create isn’t protecting me. Maybe it’s just keeping me alone.

And there are voices I remember, people who told me something I didn’t quite believe at the time. They said that no matter how messy I feel, I’m still worthy of being loved. That I don’t have to be completely healed to be held. That love isn’t something reserved for perfect versions of people. I nodded when they said it, but part of me resisted, holding on to the idea that I needed to earn it first. Still, their words stayed, lingering in the background like a gentle contradiction.

Maybe one day, I won’t feel the urge to run when something real begins to form. Maybe I’ll stay, even when it feels unfamiliar, even when it scares me. For now, I’m here, somewhere between distance and desire, trying to understand both. And when I think about that sentence again, I don’t feel exposed anymore. I feel seen, in a way I’m slowly learning how to accept.

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