The Closeness I Chase

Love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s jagged, like glass under bare feet, and you think you’re safe until it cuts deep. I’ve been caught in that storm more times than I can count — pulled close one moment, shoved away the next. The push and pull leaves bruises you can’t see, but every heartbeat remembers.

You give and give, hoping that the smallest act — an unexpected text, a laugh shared over nothing, a glance that lingers just long enough — will anchor them to you. And for a moment, it does. You think maybe this time it’s real. Maybe this time the tide won’t pull you back out to nothing. But it always does. Always.

And you start noticing the patterns: the disappearing acts, the half-truths, the walls that rise faster than you can climb. And still, you go back. You justify it. You convince yourself that love is supposed to hurt like this, that the highs make the lows worth it. That the moments of closeness — so rare, so fleeting — prove it’s worth the ache.

You lie awake at night, replaying every conversation, analyzing every silence. Was it something you said? Something you didn’t? Was it really love, or was it only ever convenience? And you catch yourself craving it all over again — the attention, the warmth, the illusion that someone sees you. Even when they don’t.

What is it really? Love, or addiction? Addiction to the thrill, to the chase, to the illusion of connection? You can’t tell anymore. All you know is that you’re leaving pieces of yourself behind — scattered across texts that never get answered, empty promises, fleeting kisses, late-night confessions you’ll never repeat.

And yet… even when it’s over, even when your heart is raw and your hands are empty, you remember the pull. You remember the closeness. You remember why you went back. That memory alone is enough to keep you turning in circles, hoping one day the tide won’t pull you under. Hoping that one day the closeness won’t vanish, leaving you drowning in your own wanting.

You tell yourself you’ll never go back. You swear you’ve learned. And yet, something inside you — a stubborn, foolish piece — clings to the hope that it could be different. That maybe the next time, they’ll stay. That maybe the storm has an eye, and you can rest there for just a little while.

But the truth is harsher. Love like this doesn’t give you eyes to rest. It gives you sharp edges, and when you least expect it, it cuts. It tests you, teases you, and teaches you lessons you don’t want to learn. The push and the pull becomes a rhythm you can’t escape. You don’t just survive it — you learn to expect it. To brace for it. To numb yourself to it.

And in that numbing, you begin to forget the warmth. You forget what it felt like to truly trust, to truly feel wanted. But the pull is always there, whispering in the quiet moments — on lonely walks, in the pauses between conversations, in your chest when your phone buzzes and it’s not them. Always reminding you of what you wanted. What you still want.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part. Not that it hurts. Not that it leaves you raw and bleeding. But that even in knowing the pain is inevitable, even in knowing you’re chasing something that will never be yours, you still reach. You still hope. You still fall.

Because some part of you — foolish, stubborn, human — believes that the closeness is worth it. Even when it never stays.