When love feels safe but scary

There’s a kind of love that feels like home — not because it’s familiar, but because it’s gentle. No storm. No chase. Just the quiet presence of someone who sees you and doesn’t flinch.

And for some people, that’s terrifying.

It took me a while to realise this. I thought if we had good conversations, if we laughed, if I was kind, that would be enough. But kindness, to someone who’s been wounded in the places kindness should have lived, can feel more dangerous than cruelty.

Because cruelty is predictable. Distance is safe. But warmth? That’s where the worst betrayals often happened.

So when she started pulling away—when the messages slowed, when her profile reappeared on the site where we first met—it hurt, yes. But it also made sense.

Somewhere along the line, she learned that closeness comes with a cost. That letting someone in is how you get broken. So when things got real, she didn’t lean in. She leaned out.

And I don’t blame her.

But I also can’t chase her.

Because I’ve worked too hard to become someone who offers calm, not chaos. I’ve bled for the peace I carry now. And I won’t make myself smaller just to feel wanted by someone who’s still afraid of the very thing I bring.

So I’ll let her go, gently.

Not because I stopped caring, but because I care enough not to become another source of fear for someone who’s not ready to be loved without danger.

And if she ever becomes ready?

She’ll know where to find me.