Not wanting to love is a kind of stillness. It’s an untouched road stretching far into the horizon, where the air is quiet and nothing pulls at your feet. It is the refusal to plant a seed because you never cared to see what might grow. It’s a door that stays closed not because you fear what’s behind it, but because you have no urge to find out. A simple, weightless emptiness—like a room with no furniture, a garden with no paths. It does not call to you. It does not ache.
But being scared to love—that is another story entirely. It’s the same road, but you’re standing on its edge, heart pounding with the knowledge that beauty waits somewhere down it. It’s a garden in full bloom that you ache to step into, but the fence around it is strung with memories that cut when you touch them.
It’s the door again—this time your hand hovers inches from the knob, feeling the warmth bleeding through the cracks. You can hear the hum of life inside, the low thrum of something that could hold you. Your chest tightens with wanting—with imagining yourself crossing over, feeling the air change, letting the light inside you again. But then come the whispers—the ones sewn into your bones from other doors, other rooms, other falls. They tell you of what can break, what can leave, what can hollow you out until you don’t recognize your own reflection.
Not wanting to love is absence without grief. Being scared to love is longing with chains at your feet—a desperate reach that stops inches short, because the ache of not having feels safer than the pain of losing.
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