Somewhere Between Messages

I didn’t plan for this.

That feels important to say first because if I had planned it I could explain it. I could justify it. I could wrap it up in something neat & sensible & adult. But I didn’t. It just… happened.

Somewhere between messages. Somewhere between jokes & check-ins & “how did you sleep todays?” Somewhere between silence that felt loud & replies that felt like oxygen.

He happened.

Now I’m here, forty-two years old, staring at my phone like a teenager, trying to convince myself that this isn’t ridiculous while knowing full well that it absolutely is & absolutely isn’t at the same time.

He calls me his best friend.

That word lands heavy. Comforting. Confusing. Safe. Dangerous. All at once.

We’re not seeing each other. But we talk every day. We share pieces of ourselves that don’t usually come out unless trust has already been built. We check on each other’s stress, sleep, appointments, mental load. He tells me about back-to-back tattoo bookings & still insists he’ll make time to tattoo me too even when I tell him he doesn’t have to.

That small insistence does something to me.

Because when you live with mental illness long enough, depression, anxiety, ADHD, trauma…, you get used to being the one who accommodates. The one who minimizes their needs. The one who says “it’s okay” when it isn’t.

So when someone doesn’t pull away

When they don’t choose the easier option

When they don’t disappear into busyness

It feels loud in my chest.

I find myself overthinking everything. Am I sending too much? Am I too available? Too honest? Too soft? Am I reading into things that aren’t there? Or am I gaslighting myself into believing this connection isn’t real because believing it is feels terrifying?

Mental illness doesn’t politely sit in the corner while feelings develop. It shows up with a clipboard & a megaphone.

It tells me:

You’re too much

You’ll scare him off

You’re projecting

This is attachment, not connection

Calm down

Don’t ruin this

You’re already ruining this

And yet despite all of that noise, there’s something steady underneath.

He doesn’t flinch when I’m honest

He doesn’t mock my softness

He doesn’t make me feel foolish for caring

He doesn’t vanish when things get quiet

Contained intimacy. I learned that term recently. It fits. A closeness with boundaries. Emotional warmth without chaos. A slow burn that doesn’t demand but still invites.

Maybe that’s why this feels so intense.

Because my nervous system is used to extremes. Used to highs & crashes. Used to proving worth through overgiving or disappearing entirely. Used to love that feels like panic.

This doesn’t.

This feels like anticipation instead of fear

Like wanting instead of needing

Like being seen instead of performed to

I don’t know what this will become

I don’t know if he loves me

I don’t even know if I’m allowed to hope

But I know this: something in me feels awake. Tender. Brave in a way that scares me.

Maybe this isn’t about whether it turns into a relationship

Maybe it’s about realizing that even after years of surviving — after diagnoses, meds, therapy, shutdowns, rebuilding — my heart still opens

Still risks

Still reaches

Still believes

Hope dies last

& apparently, she still texts goodnight while falling asleep, thinking of someone who feels like home even if she’s not sure she’s allowed to call it that yet

-a