could we cross the line?

friends, lovers, or somewhere in between. what happens when it all doesn't click when it feels like it should?

The unfortunate truth is—
our bodies are rejecting each other.

When we’re in the same space,
my soul feels like it’s meeting itself in a small way.
But that’s the thing—
we have too much in common.

I never thought I’d hear myself say this:
we share the parts of me I don’t love.
The part that isn’t quite sure what to do.
The part that struggles to advocate for what I want in the moment.
The part that still feels inexperienced in creating a moment
that leads to intimacy.

It was like looking in a mirror
and realizing I didn’t like what I saw—
the parts I dread to face because they feel inescapable.

So when we laid on your bed,
it felt like our bodies were rejecting each other too.

You say, matter-of-factly,
“Would you want to cuddle?”
No sensuality, no soft whisper—
just something flat, almost clinical.

I oblige. I inch closer.
It seems like you want to spoon.
I suggest we just lay side by side,
take your arm and place it over my shoulder,
resting on top of it.

We stay like that
until your arm goes numb.
You pull away.
A gap opens up between us.

We talk.
I stare up at the wall,
noticing how long it’s been
since I felt so listened to—
like my thoughts could pour out
and actually be received.
Not just passively entertained.
But really heard.

Then you lean your body toward me.
Again, in that same matter-of-fact tone:
“Would you want to kiss?”

I say, “I’ll think about it.”
And I keep talking.

You listen, or at least you seem to.
You laugh at the right parts
of my past relationship stories—
seem entertained, engaged.

And for a moment, I forget what you asked.
Then I say,
“It’s getting late.”

You drive me home.

And I wonder—
could we ever really cross that line,
or would our bodies always resist
what our minds had already agreed upon?

Because I think about how much you say
you want to explore physically with me—
but the way you nearly fell off the bed
just to give me space
said everything your words haven’t.

You agreed to this arrangement
because of unmet needs.
But deep down,
I don’t think you want them met by me either.

We’re both holding onto
how we started—
the day we met and just clicked,
the way we admitted our attraction
like it meant something
that now needs to go somewhere.

But could we even be friends?

I don’t know.
Because the way you looked at me that night—
with something almost like love—
makes me think you want more.

A relationship.

And I can’t give you that.

If I had control over shaping where we were,
maybe I could get there—
if silences didn’t feel so loud,
if we could just let our bodies
do all the talking
in a dimly lit room.

The question is—
can you find the calm within you to get us there,
or will that be the deterrent
to us ever making it across the finish line?

Incredibly confusing.
The very definition of it’s complicated.

The only reason I even opened up the possibility
was because I wasn’t lying that first night—
when I told you I was attracted to you.

That night, when you leaned in so I could hear you better,
I caught the scent of your cologne.
I’ll admit—
I leaned in, too.
Not because I couldn’t hear you,
but because I liked the way your scent
mingled with your pheromones.

That might seem trivial,
but I don’t experience that
unless there’s sexual potential.

I agreed to see you again
because I was curious—
could that smell return?

And in that movie theater,
when we sat in silence,
just our bodies existing,
surrounded by the glow of the big screen,
your breathing steady beside me—
there it was.
The scent.
The calm.

And I thought,
Yeah, I could be intimate with you.
I’ll admit—
in that moment, I was turned on.

I even wondered—
is this what you sound like
when you’re being pleasured?
The rhythm of your breath
made me think it might be.

The thought turned me on even more.

Part of me wishes
I’d just said it out loud.
Maybe we could’ve left the movie early.
Maybe I could’ve shushed you—
and it could’ve happened.

But we stayed.
The credits rolled.
We walked around the city.
And the flame that had sparked
quietly burned out—
never to return.

i don’t think i like myself as much as i thought?
because why does attention from someone who is genuine
feel so foreign to me
i grew so used to people who could never give me their undivided attention
that now someone giving me their all and communicating
takes me out of it
i need to be shown
to fully get there
an absence of that kills it for me

i think i am trying to force something here
i think as a service to both of us i should end whatever this is here before it becomes overally complicated
and you get more attached
i don’t want you to get hurt by me
you don’t deserve that
so this is goodbye