Flight or fight

There’s a different type of fear now. After a while it’s no longer about whether this will lead somewhere, whether you’ll end up disappointed again or not. Now there’s a real discomfort upon realizing you’ve never, ever, ever felt so strongly about anyone before. Now it’s scary when you know he’s on the road but doesn’t answer your call, so you start googling “accidents on Highway 2”; “deaths tonight from MVC”; “student found DOA in outskirts of city” just to see if anything pops up with his name. Now it feels terrifying that even though you know he’s lived 27 years of life before he met you, you have to be okay with those years–the experiences that went with them, the people that went with them, the stories that took place without you. A grumbling anxiety that he’s done these things before, felt these things before, with girls who aren’t you. A nagging insecurity constantly asking if this is really as good as those other times, or if there’s something you could be doing better.

It’s scary to think that a young woman who’s had her own 27 years to grow into herself, suddenly finds it difficult to be alone. Things that were enjoyable in solitude simply are not. Days that were never recounted with anyone, now must be shared with him to make them have happened at all. There are a few minutes at the end of each day spent with his voice that feel necessary, truly necessary, before the day can come to a close.

Suddenly, it’s scary to think that you might disappoint this person. That there is someone out there that you care enough about to disappoint, and in fact, the idea of disappointing them already feels like the ultimate sense of devastation. An offhand, mildly critical comment feels earth-shattering–not because it hurts, but because you can’t believe that even in this small way, you’ve let this person down. And that night he told you you actually did say something that had hurt him… oh, God, there are no words for that degree of anguish. How could you? To someone who is so kind, so pure, so good to you–even if it was a slip of the tongue–how could you?

In a society that teaches us how not to be vulnerable, loving this vulnerably is a courageous act.

How does he make it look so easy? How does he effortlessly sync you into his accounts, unafraid of intertwining your technological lives together, unfazed by the potential messy footprint this might leave if things go south? How does he say with such confidence that they won’t? Despite having been so deeply hurt himself, how does he look at you, unjaded, with that sunny disposition and see a future in your eyes?

What does that say about him, if not the fact that he’s the bravest person in the world?

They say that those who turn to God only in times of fear are the weakest of faith. What does one make of this humble servant who feels things are so, so, so good, that she can only be terrified that she’s never done anything to deserve them? Terrified that these blessings might get taken away at any moment? Terrified of the pile of mush she’s become around him, that she won’t know how to be herself again? I am honestly trying to make sense of it all, but other than praying that God continues to treat me better than I deserve, I can’t do much else but quiver in my boots.

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