"Somewhere I Thought You Would Say"

 

"Somewhere Between Holding On and Letting Go"

 

I have stopped writing this sentence twice already. There are tears in my eyes, and I cannot explain which thought brought them here. Perhaps it is everything happening at once. Perhaps it is the tiredness of carrying things I have not found the words to tell anyone. Or perhaps, after spending another day behaving as though I know what I am doing, I have finally reached a quiet moment in which I can admit that I do not.

I do not know where this journey is taking me. Lately, one thing leads to another before I have had time to understand the first. A conversation leaves me unsettled. A small hope gives me something to look forward to, and then something changes. I make plans around a possibility, only to find myself rearranging them again. By the end of the day, I have thought about so many different futures that I no longer know which one belongs to me. People ask how things are going. I usually find something simple to say. “It’s been a busy few days.” “I’m managing.” “Let’s see what happens.” They are not entirely untrue, those answers. They are just too small to hold everything. How do I explain that I am trying, but I cannot tell whether my efforts are taking me anywhere? How do I say that some mornings I wake up with determination, and by evening I need someone to remind me why I believed things could get better? There is no easy way to put that into an ordinary conversation without feeling as though I have made the room uncomfortable.

So I ask about their day instead. I listen. I respond. Sometimes I laugh, and the laughter is real. That is something I wish people understood about difficult days: there can still be good moments inside them. I can enjoy a conversation and feel lost afterwards. I can be grateful for what I have and frightened about what comes next. One feeling does not neatly replace another. They sit together, making it difficult to answer even a question as simple as, “Are you all right?” And while I am trying to understand my life, there are people I wish I could have beside me. Their presence would not settle every uncertainty. I know that. But there are certain voices that make a difficult day feel less lonely. There are people whose company allows you to stop explaining yourself for a little while. You can sit beside them, say very little, and feel that you have somewhere to rest.

I have wanted that kind of closeness more than I have admitted. Yet lately, the more I reach towards certain people, the further away they seem. I try to make time. I try to understand. I leave room for their circumstances, their worries, their hesitation. Still, I am left with the feeling that I am standing somewhere outside the life they are willing to share with me. Sometimes it seems as though all my effort is answered by the same quiet message: you are still nowhere near.

I carry that feeling into places where it does not belong. It comes with me when I make a cup of tea, when I walk home, when I lie down and should be sleeping. I find myself wondering what “near enough” would look like. A more settled life? Fewer uncertainties? A version of me who has already found his way and no longer needs reassurance? Then I feel ashamed for asking those questions, even privately.

Because I know that nobody owes me closeness. Caring deeply about someone does not give me the right to choose their feelings. They have their own lives, their own boundaries, and reasons I may never fully understand. I want to respect that. I want to be someone who can accept an answer without turning his hurt into another person’s burden. But accepting something does not make it painless. There are evenings when I open a conversation on my phone and read it without typing. I remember how naturally the words used to come, or how much I hoped they might. I write a message, shorten it, then delete it. I wonder whether reaching out will bring comfort or leave me feeling more alone. Eventually, I put the phone down, but my thoughts remain exactly where they were.

It is exhausting to become so careful with feelings that once felt simple. I miss the ease of saying, “I wanted to hear your voice,” without first considering whether that would be too much. I miss speaking from affection without immediately wishing I had sounded less affected. Somewhere along the way, I have begun editing myself so that my longing will take up less space. And still, when something happens, those are the people I want to tell. That is the part I struggle with most. The heart does not immediately learn what the mind has understood. It keeps turning towards familiar names. It remembers a kindness, a conversation, a moment of warmth, and hopes there might be more. Even after deciding to step back, I find myself wanting to share some small detail of my day.

Perhaps you have known this feeling too. Perhaps you have finished a perfectly ordinary day, closed your bedroom door, and cried before you could even take your shoes off. Perhaps someone has called you strong when all you wanted was for them to notice how tired you were. Perhaps you have looked at your phone, hoping for one particular name, then felt foolish for letting its absence affect your evening. I think there are more of us living like this than we realise.

We meet each other while buying groceries, travelling to work, answering messages. We see clean clothes, familiar smiles, people getting on with their responsibilities. We rarely see what it took for someone to get out of bed that morning, or the conversation they are still replaying while we speak to them. I wish I remembered that more often. I wish I offered myself the patience I would offer someone else. If a friend told me what I am writing now, I would not ask why he had not worked everything out yet. I would let him speak. I would tell him that being uncertain does not make him a disappointment. I would sit with him until he felt ready to go home.

Yet when I am the one struggling, I become impatient. I expect myself to recover quickly, make the right decision, stop missing people, and carry on. Tonight, I cannot meet all those expectations. Tonight, I am sad about things I cannot change. I am worried about things I cannot predict. I miss people, and I do not know whether they miss me in the same way. Writing that plainly makes me cry again, but it also brings a little relief. At least here, I do not have to make my feelings easier for anyone to hear. I still want a good life. Even now, underneath the confusion, I can feel that desire. I want work that means something to me, a home where I feel at ease, and relationships in which affection does not need to be measured before it is shown. I want to share ordinary evenings with people who are glad I am there.

I do not think those are impossible things to want. For now, I will finish this page. I will wipe my face, drink some water, and leave tomorrow’s questions until morning. They will probably still be there when I wake up. But I will be there too, with another chance to decide what I can do next. And if you are reading this with someone’s name in your mind, or with worries you have not spoken aloud, I hope you feel a little less alone.

For a few minutes, someone else has been sitting here, trying to find the words for it too.

Joice💓