Pixie

She loved as though tenderness was infinite.

It wasn't.

Some nights she would watch two people fall in love on a screen, feel the ache settle beneath her ribs, and wonder if she had spent so much of her life being gentle with the world...

Stopped checking in first.

Stopped carrying conversations

that had always needed her shoulders.

She wanted to know

who would reach for her

if she stood still.

The silence answered.

And somehow,

that hurt less

her happiness had always come with conditions.

Not her own.

Everyone else's.

So she learned to bend.

To compromise.

To wait.

To understand.

To give.

Until one day she looked around

and realized she had built a life

where everyone was comfortable

Then twice.

Then ten more times looking for hidden meanings.

Searching for changes in tone.

For things that weren't there.

For proof that she had done something wrong.

The truth was,

her mind had always been a talented storyteller.

Unfortunately,

Through usernames.

Through carefully chosen pieces of themselves.

But time has a way of softening walls.

The masks slipped.

The voices became familiar.

The silences became comfortable.

And one day she realized

these people knew her heart

without ever having held her hand.

The moments between heartbeats.

A hand at her waist.

A breath against her neck.

The weight of someone choosing to stay close.

There was a thrill in it.

In the way anticipation curled beneath her skin.

In the way a touch could linger just long enough to steal her breath.

In the way his eyes held hers,

as though he was memorizing every reaction.

Every smile.

Every shiver.

Every secret she gave away without meaning to.

As though every touch carried the same unspoken question:

May I know you?

And every lingering touch answered:

She woke up determined.

Today would be different.

Today she would stop reaching for things she couldn't have.

Then she'd hear his voice.

And suddenly every promise she'd made herself

The small freckle on her left hand.

The thin scar nestled in the crook of her elbow.

The birthmark resting low on her back.

The things he had seen a thousand times.

The things his hands once found without looking.

She wondered if familiarity had stolen the wonder from them.

Or if, somewhere beneath routine and ordinary days,

he still saw her

The sparks.

The wildfire.

She wanted the slow burn.

The kind that lingers on fingertips.

The kind that learns every scar by heart.

The kind that kisses with intention

and stays after the passion fades.

She wanted to be wanted.

Not just for a moment.

Wanting something I can't have.

Or watching everyone around me receive it so easily.

It's everywhere.

In conversations. In photos. In stories people tell without thinking.

They hold it in their hands so casually, unaware that I'd give anything to know what that feels like.

And I smile.

I celebrate them.

I listen and nod and tell them how happy I am for them.

Because I am.

But there is a quiet ache that follows.

A small voice that asks, "Why not me?"

Not because they don't deserve it.

Not because I want it taken away from them.

Just because I wish I knew what it felt like to be chosen by the thing that keeps passing me by.

People say comparison is the thief of joy.

Maybe.

But sometimes comparison isn't about envy.

Sometimes it's about loss.

It's about standing outside in the cold looking through a window and realizing everyone else seems to have found warmth.

And after a while you stop wondering what you're doing wrong.

You just start wondering if the warmth was ever meant for you at all.

That's the part nobody talks about.

The exhaustion of wanting.

The ache of hoping.

The quiet heartbreak of watching something you long for become so out of reach for you.

And still, somehow, waking up each day and carrying the hope that it will anyway.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that makes people stop and stare. In a slow, quiet way. Like a fire that has been smouldering for so long that I've forgotten what it feels like not to be warm with exhaustion.

I keep going. I get up. I go to work. I take care of the house. I answer messages. I smile. I laugh. I make plans. I do all the things a functioning person is supposed to do.

But underneath it, I feel stretched so thin that sometimes I wonder how much more I can hold before something finally gives.

I feel unseen.

Not invisible. People see me. They talk to me. They know my name. But I don't know if they really see me. The effort. The weight. The constant balancing act of trying to be everything for everyone while quietly hoping someone notices I'm struggling before I have to say it out loud.

I am so tired of being resilient.

Everyone praises resilience like it's a gift, but resilience is often just surviving things you never wanted to survive in the first place.

Some days I feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. The pressure builds and builds and builds. I can hear the whistle starting somewhere deep inside me, but I keep turning the burner up because there are things that need doing and people who need me and responsibilities that won't wait.

And yet, there is this loneliness that follows me around.

Not because I am alone.

Because I feel alone in what I carry.

I don't want fixing. I don't want solutions. I don't want someone to tell me how lucky I am or how strong I am.

I think I just want someone to look at me and say, "That sounds heavy."

Because it is.

And lately, I think I've been carrying too much for too long.

Maybe that's what this feeling is.

Not weakness.

Not failure.

Just a soul that has been running on empty for longer than it should have.