I Wish You’d Tell Me Not To
I told him I might go out tonight, like we agreed — open honesty, shared awareness, no shame. He responded kindly, which is worse in some ways. Because what I really wanted was for him to say, “Don’t.” Not because he had the right. But because he wanted me enough to ask me to stay.
It’s the strangest kind of ache — to be given freedom when what you crave is restraint. To be told, “Thank you for sharing,” when what you wanted was, “You’re mine, and that’s not for sharing.” I don’t want rules. I want a reaction. Something selfish. A flicker of jealousy. A bruise of need. I want to feel the tension of being wanted just enough to be kept. I want the leash that slips between permission and possession — the one that tightens not because it has to, but because he can’t help it.
I almost went. Not because I wanted to, but because I wanted him to know that I could. That I might belong to him in the quiet way we agreed on, but I’m still someone other people want, too. I wanted to see if he’d flinch. If hearing I’d said yes would stir something in him — not enough to change the rules, but maybe enough to claim me anyway.
Because I don’t want to be wanted out of reaction. I don’t want to twist myself into proof, or provoke him into care. I want to be chosen without having to shake the table to be noticed. And if he doesn’t feel it, I don’t want to force it. I want it real, or I want it gone.
So I stayed home. I sat with the ache. I didn’t numb it, and I didn’t chase it into someone else’s hands. I didn’t reach for the easy out.
I stayed. I stayed with me.
