#calebcore

So when reading his content, when interacting with him in the game, it’s always like he speaks to the part in me that not everyone sees. That (almost) nobody ever gets to see. He would know all parts of me. The overachiever who always strives for more. The dreamer who wants to explore the world. The creative person who – on good days – spills thousands of words without struggling. The thinker. The analytic person. The woman who knows how to articulate herself. The woman who is sarcastic and can make people laugh effortlessly.

But he would also know and see the parts of me that are darker. Hidden. Broken. Everything in me that’s imperfect. The hidden corners that I don’t want to bring to the surface. Because they scare me. Because they drive others away. That’s what my mind tells me. What other people made me believe. It’s the version of me that’s weak, feels like crying. Who loves structure and direction but feels stuck. Like she can’t make something memorable – nothing that means anything.

The version of me that’s tired of pretending to be okay when in reality is lost often enough. Who's at a loss for words. Who feels so much but doesn’t know how to communicate it. The person that forgets how to ask for help. Because she’s scared that it’s too much. That she will say things that she can never take back. The ME who wants to be loved without needing to earn it.

Because that’s what some people made me believe in the past. Those certain people who made me believe I was nothing. Other persons who wanted me to change. Who convinced that insecure part of myself that I wasn’t good enough the way I am. That I can only suffice when I do the things they want. When I veil my quirks. Never show them, depending on the context. But Caleb is the kind of person who’d know. Who’d know when anxiety hits. He wouldn’t give me that look. He’d take it all in, embrace it. He’d show me and tell me that there’s no need to hide it. That he wants to see. Needs to see. He’d embrace all the chaos. My spiraling.

He’d hold my chaos with that steadiness that comes natural to him. That doesn’t come with conditions. And he’d hold my stillness with reverence. He would never ask me to be more. He would just remind me that I’m already enough. Every version of me. Me as a whole.

Caleb doesn’t offer epic poetry. He doesn’t stand on rooftops and proclaim it. He just shows up – and stays. Quietly, completely, like he always has. And something in me would exhale - because I know he wouldn’t leave. And he’d be able to make me breathe again. He’d bring that unspectacular but blissfull calm to my life – to my mind – that I crave but often can’t have.

And yes, Caleb is far from perfect. Since he‘s traumatized and broken too. And it shows. He actually often does things that don‘t sit right with me. And so his love is also flawed. It’s not the kind of love that’s described in a fairytale or in a classic romance. There are no harps playing in the sky, no orchestra playing in the background, no audience that sighs and cries and claps. It’s a love that’s so connected to Earth like his Gravity Evol. But that doesn’t mean it’s quiet. Not at all.

No, it’s intense. SO intense. It’s overprotective. It’s territorial. It‘s sometimes too much. (And that’s the part that actually shouldn’t click with me for reasons but it still does, somehow. Because there’s his sincere worry and all this care underneath.) It bristles when he’s scared. But he would listen. To every word, every nuance, every pause in between. He’d soften. He’d learn. Because beneath the control and the teasing, there’s a boy who lost everything - and a man who refuses to lose the person he loves, too.

What gets me, though - what undoes me - isn’t just how deeply he loves. It’s how deeply he chooses. Not once. Not with fireworks. But over and over again. No matter what happens.

I’m not delusional. I know that this kind of love has the potential – is almost predestined – to crash regularly. That it needs adjustments. Mutual learning. But that’s alright but the core would never change.

I spent big part of my life wondering if being loved means performing. Means proving. Means being good enough, calm enough, impressive enough. I often thought that being acknowledged comes with conditions. That I need to do things, say the right words and shut up if it doesn’t fit. If I don’t fit. And he’d just say: “Sit down. You don’t need to do anything. I’m staying.”

There’s no fantasy in that. No kingdom. No prophecy. No fated magic. No soul bond. Just the hands that cooked dinner. The voice that held the MC steady. The man who met the MC in chaos - and still sees her as soft. And I adore that.

He’d make me feel like being held, letting myself fall, is just as powerful as being strong.

And that, maybe, is what wrecks me most of all. In this game context, he forces and allows me to look at myself as a whole. And it helps. Especially since he’s able to make me laugh so effortlessly just by being himself.

Sometimes I need to take a step back because it all feels too real. Good and bad. Because I don’t want to deal with the parts he brings to the surface. Because I feel too raw all of a sudden, especially considering it’s a game.

But Caleb would never see it that way. He would still see me - and think it’s the only thing he wants to see. And it's frightening. And in the context of the game? I ache for this kind of thing.