🇬🇧 I Know How to Open Myself to You — But I’m Not Sure I Can Take What You Offer in Return (1/3)

(on how sometimes it’s easier to reveal yourself than to let yourself be truly seen)

I always thought that the hardest thing in any relationship was to speak.

To utter the truth.

To strip away your façades.

To stand in a place where you no longer pretend.

But now I know that’s not true.

Speaking comes easily to me.

Revealing myself — just as easily.

To admit that I’m afraid.

That I feel inadequate.

That I don’t know whether I’m loved — yes, I can do that.

Surprisingly easily.

As if it were my specialty.

But when it’s your turn…

when you want to say “you matter”,

when you reach out your hand,

when you say “I want to give you something too” -

something clenches inside me.

Distrust.

Discomfort.

A fear I can’t put into any sensible words.

Maybe I’ve only ever learned how to give from the lower ground.

Only when I’m the weaker one.

When I’m the “problem.”

When I’m the one opening up — holding control as I do it.

Because when you say “I see you” -

I’m no longer the one leading.

No longer the one defining the moment.

No longer the one setting the stage.

And then I feel naked not because I’ve exposed myself -

but because someone is looking.

Uninvited.

Unprovoked.

Just looking — and wanting to stay.

I know how to speak of wounds.

I learned that very early on.

Because it was my way of building closeness.

Of saying “stay with me” -

but never directly.

I’d say: “I’m broken” -

when I meant: “stay, even if I don’t know how to ask.”

I’d say: “I’m not sure I can love” -

but what I meant was: “stay, even if I never say it out loud.”

I’d say: “I’m sorry to burden you” -

when deep down I just wanted to hear: “You’re not a burden. You simply exist — and that’s enough.”

And many people really did stay.

But always on my terms.

In that asymmetry.

Where I would speak, and they would listen.

Where I was visible — but never fully touchable.

Where my suffering was like a screen — intimate, but one-sided.

And now you’re saying: “I see you too.”

Not as someone to rescue.

Not as a case to be analysed.

Not as a victim.

Simply — I see you.

I want to be close to you not because something in you needs fixing.

But because you are.

And then this voice rises inside me.

Wary.

Ashamed.

Almost spiteful.

It whispers:

“But how? I’m not ready to receive.

I don’t even know how.”

Because if I accept -

I’m no longer just the giver.

No longer the one holding control,

narrating my emotional biography with just the right saturation.

If I accept -

it means I’ve become dependent.

That something inside me has opened for real.

Not just talked about opening.

And that’s what hurts the most.

Not when you hold me.

But when I feel the urge to pull away.

Because I know — it’s not you who’s the problem.

It’s me.

Unaccustomed to being chosen

not because of my pain,

but in spite of it.

I know how to be close.

But only on my terms.

In a rhythm I know.

Within a narrative where I am someone to be told -

but not necessarily to be held.

Because then I would have to accept that I am worthy.

Not for something.

Not because of something.

Not as the product of suffering.

Just like that.

Once, I said to someone:

“I’m afraid that if I accept something,

I’ll have to hold on to it.”

And they replied:

“You don’t have to hold on to anything.

It’s enough not to push it away.”

And that sentence returns to me

when we lie together in silence,

and your hand brushes mine.

Gently.

Without pressure.

Without purpose.

And for a moment,

I feel seen — not through what I say,

but simply because I am.

And in that moment,

I try not to run.

Not to pull my hand away.

Not to start talking about something difficult

just to restore the familiar order.

Because sometimes the bravest thing I can do

is accept that I am enough for someone -

without being in need.

I’m still learning.

Not all at once.

Not with confidence.

But I’m learning.

To stop being a story.

And to become a person.

One who can be touched — not just out of pity, but out of tenderness.

One who can be present — not just through drama, but through silence.

I’m learning to say:

“Stay — but this time, I’ll truly stay too.”

Not just in words.

Not just in a story.

But with myself.

And maybe that’s what closeness really means:

That you stop hiding behind your own pain.

That you let yourself be seen — just as you are,

when you’re no longer telling a tale.

When you’re just sitting there.

With an open hand.

With breath.

With a heart that no longer needs to shelter behind a quote.

And you say:

“Yes. I know how to open up.

But now — I want to know how to receive, too.

Receive you.

And whatever it is you still wish to give.”