#neediness

I don’t remember the first time I begged someone to stay, but I remember the last. It was my ex, and he didn’t stay. I was crying. I was desperate. It was full-body, full-heart begging—the kind that leaves behind a kind of shame you carry even after the door has closed. I’ve never begged anyone to stay since. Not like that.

But I still beg. I beg in different ways now. I’ve begged to be their little girl in scenes, my voice cracking as I say it because I know what happens when they call me that. I know I’ll feel chosen. I’ll feel held. I’ll feel like I’ve finally earned relief. I’ve almost begged to be loved, though it never quite comes out that clearly. It usually just sounds like “Please…”

Begging makes me sob. It makes me feel disgusting and seen and free, all at once. Sometimes I don’t even know exactly what I’m begging for—just that I need it. There was a scene once where I was made to beg—really beg—and something about it cracked me open. I don’t even remember what I was begging for by the end. It started as something physical, some specific permission or touch, but somewhere in the middle of the pleading I lost the thread. I was sobbing, snotty, red-faced, raw. I think I scared him a little. But I wanted it. I wanted to be cracked open like that. It felt like pain, and also like permission. Like someone finally saw how desperate I was and didn’t look away.

Begging holds power for me because it strips away everything else. It’s not graceful or composed. It’s not strategic or safe. It’s just need, laid bare. And I spend so much of my life hiding need—watering it down, dressing it up, making it easier to love. But when I’m begging, I don’t care if I’m easy to love. I care if they hear me.

It’s a way of saying: look at me, this is what I want. This is what I’ll do to have it. Sometimes I beg to be used. Sometimes I beg to be held. Sometimes I don’t know which is which until it’s already happening. Either way, there’s power in letting go of the performance and just asking. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.

I don’t beg as easily now—not because I don’t want to, but because I know what it takes out of me. Because there’s always the chance I’ll say “please” and they won’t stay. Or worse—they’ll stay, but they won’t hear me. Still, I crave it—that edge-of-my-voice pleading, the wild, red ache of asking out loud. Because in those moments, I’m not hiding. I’m not shrinking. I’m not trying to make myself easier to love.

at first it was soft.

soft in the way warm hands are soft after you’ve spent your whole life cold. soft in the way their voice lowered every noise in my head until all i could hear was them.

i think that’s what ruined me.

because nobody warns you what happens when someone finally loves you correctly after years of feeling fundamentally unlovable.

nobody tells you how quickly affection becomes dependency.

୨୧

they looked at me like i was something precious instead of something difficult. they listened when i spoke instead of waiting for me to stop talking. they memorized little things about me — the songs that make me cry, the foods i pick apart, the way i go quiet when i’m scared instead of angry.

and suddenly i started craving them in horrifying amounts.

like a starving animal finally being fed.

💉🧸🍓

i wanted every text message. every touch. every sleepy “come here” whispered into the dark. i wanted to be held so tightly that my ribs forgot how empty they used to feel.

their affection felt medicinal.

their praise felt holy.

and every time they kissed me like they meant it, every time they touched me with that unbearable tenderness, it felt like the hollow space inside me finally stopped screaming for a few precious moments.

like maybe intimacy could actually carve the sadness out of me completely.

♡

i started needing them in ways i couldn’t explain without sounding insane.

i would reread old conversations until sunrise just to feel close to them again. memorize the cadence of their laughter. stare at pictures of them until my chest hurt. every little notification from them sent adrenaline through my body like i was being revived.

it stopped feeling like love eventually.

it started feeling like worship.

⛓️🫀⛓️

because once someone becomes the only thing capable of making you feel real, losing them stops sounding survivable.

i wanted all of them.

every thought. every second. every fragile little piece they never showed anyone else. i wanted to crawl beneath their skin and stay there permanently. i wanted to consume every ounce of affection they offered me until there was nothing left in the world except us.

and the terrifying part is that they made me *want* to become this way.

they loved me so gently that it rotted me from the inside out.

🩹🐇💔

i became obsessive in quiet ways first.

checking my phone every few minutes. counting how long it took them to reply. overanalyzing punctuation. wondering who else got to hear them laugh like that. feeling physically sick whenever their attention shifted away from me for too long.

then it became uglier.

possessive. desperate. pathetic.

i wanted to be the first thing they thought about every morning and the last thing haunting them before sleep. i wanted them addicted to me the same way i was addicted to them.

because i couldn’t go back to being empty again.

i couldn’t survive becoming ordinary to someone who taught me what it felt like to be adored.

୨♡୧

and maybe that’s the most humiliating part of all this:

if they asked for everything from me, i would give it willingly.

my sleep. my sanity. my body. my time. my bleeding heart held carefully in both hands like an offering.

because being loved by them feels so euphoric that i think i’d let it destroy me completely if it meant i could stay inside their arms a little longer.

She comes in,

She goes;

and the space she left me

It's not "friendship", or "loyalty", "brothers", or any other word like that.

It's "need". "Needy". "Neediness".