It’s Not the Connection, It’s Me
He keeps saying our connection feels fragile. And I keep wanting to correct him—it’s not the connection. It’s me.
The bond itself is steady. What shakes is how much I feel. How quickly I bruise if something shifts even slightly. I notice every pause, every word that lands heavier than it was meant to. To him, it looks like the thread between us is fraying. To me, it’s that I’m the thread—pulled thin, stretched, sensitive to every tug.
I hate the word “fragile” because it makes it sound like weakness. Like something disposable. But the truth is, I am fragile. I’m the one who splinters. I don’t know how to connect halfway, and I don’t know how to stop caring so much. That’s what makes me feel breakable, not the connection itself.
Maybe that’s the real risk of being with me: you get someone who feels everything at full volume, and who needs gentleness not because she doubts you, but because she doubts herself.
