Some nights, the silence doesn’t soothe—it stings. The bed doesn’t offer the same safety, comfort, warmth, and sensuality it once did. It’s true, one of my partners still sleeps peacefully near me…but I’m not sleeping. The other side of the bed is empty, half-hopeful, and half-hurt. The part that’s missing isn’t just a body. It’s presence. It’s effort. It’s us.

He’s sleeping in another room again. Maybe for rest. Maybe for space. But last night, it was because he was upset with me for having the audacity to share how I feel. So forgive me if my heart can’t swallow the softer story tonight. Lord knows I want to. I desperately want to believe I’m being overly sensitive again, but is that really true? Or is it my old habit of believing I’m always the problem the very thing that keeps dragging me back into these messes? Self-abandonment at its finest- subtle as ever.

It’s 2 a.m. and I’m sitting in the glow of the kitchen light, sipping grief like bitter tea.

I want to tell myself not to make assumptions, to not spiral into a story of rejection. But I also can’t ignore the familiar ache—the one that whispers, This is what it looks like when a connection starts to unravel.

I’ve been here before. With someone else. With myself. The slow distancing, the way disagreements go unresolved and sit like ghosts between us, haunting the moments that should be tender.

I tried to express how I felt. I was met with accusations, deflection, and contempt. No repair followed. Just space. And now, space has become the default setting.

And still, I’m supposed to show up at lunch today like nothing’s wrong? Smile with swollen eyes and swallow the lump in my throat like it’s just another Thursday? Nah, babe. That’s not emotional safety. That’s performance.

Here’s the sacred sass of it all: I’m not blaming him for having feelings or needing time. I’m not perfect—I’ve made my share of relational missteps. I’ve even been him in a past relationship, unable to see the harm I was causing until the rubble buried the love and buried us both alive.

But what I won’t do is pretend this dynamic is healthy just because I want it to be. Just because I love him. Just because I’m scared to lose what we could be.

I believe we could make something beautiful—if we both show up. But I can’t keep showing up for two. Ironically, he feels like he’s the only one showing up. And I have no idea how to process that. I can’t keep building bridges while he’s busy digging trenches—to protect himself from feelings I haven’t even expressed yet.

And look, I have deep sympathy for these tactics of self-preservation. I used to practice that particular art like it was a motherfucking religion. Some days I still do. But here’s the thing: those tactics only make sense when you believe there’s an enemy to protect yourself from.

And I am not the enemy.

An enemy would never reach out with trembling hands, begging only to be understood.
An enemy would never stay up all night trying to soften their truth just to keep from wounding yours.
An enemy doesn’t cry when you hurt.
An enemy doesn’t root for your healing, even when she’s hurting too.

I’m not your enemy—I’m your mirror.
But you keep mistaking your own reflection for a threat.
That’s not on me, Love. that’s not me.

I am not the enemy. Not today anyway, but I am FAR from blameless. I have no room to point fingers. I take responsibility for the trust I have eroded in our relationship that added bricks to the wall between us. For evidence of my most awful missteps and biggest learning experiences, I suggest this grubby little gem.

[Link to the separate post- story within the “dream diaries kickoff” tab]

So here I am, sipping the truth:

• I feel sad.
• I feel disconnected.
• I feel punished for needing connection.
• I also feel regret for the times I’ve made him feel like the enemy, even when that was never my intention. I see how my own defensiveness, avoidance, and mistakes have built walls instead of bridges. I’m sorry for that.
• I feel alone. I cannot be heard if he cannot distinguish feeling from fight.

I don’t know how this story ends. But I know what I won’t write into it anymore: self-abandonment.

The bed may be cold, but I refuse to be. I am warm, and my heart is home. Warming up to myself again is a damn fine place to be.

Spoiler Alert: This is how it ended—[link to Quiet Exits & Loud Lessons]. Just another grubby little gem where I unpack my part in the emotional unraveling. The gritty part of self-realization.