Love Can Stay Steady, Even When I'm Not

I push them away, again and again. It’s not deliberate, not at first, but it’s there—in the way I retreat into myself when things start to feel too close, too real.

I can feel the distance I create, but it’s like watching someone else do it.

Some reflex too deep to control. And every time, I think, this will be it—this will be the time they finally give up on me.

But they don’t.

They stay. They build bridges from the ashes of everyone I’ve tried to burn and they meet me halfway, then walk the rest of the distance when I can’t take another step.

They steady my shaking hands when I’m too afraid to reach for them. And somehow, they do it without making me feel small, without making me feel like a problem to be solved.

They’re steady in a way I don’t know how to be.

It’s unnerving, honestly.

I’ve spent so long preparing for people to leave that I don’t know what to do with someone who stays.

It’s like waiting for a storm that never comes.

I throw up walls as fast as I can, testing their resolve, and daring them to climb.

And they do, every time.

Not to prove a point, not to wear me down, but because they’ve decided I’m worth it, even when I’m not so sure.

They show up, again and again, in ways I didn’t know someone could. It’s not always grand gestures—it’s the little things, the moments I think no one sees.

They notice the way my voice falters when I say, “I’m fine,” and they don’t push for more, just sit beside me until I’m ready to speak. They remember the small things I’ve mentioned in passing—my favorite smells, the way I like my coffee, childhood stories. If I had a scar on my left hand, they would remember the story behind it. They don’t ask for anything in return; they just show up.

I think if they leave, it’ll confirm what I’ve always believed—that I’m too much, or not enough, or whatever combination of things that makes people eventually turn away.

And some part of me still braces for it, still waits for the moment they’ll decide I’m too complicated, too messy, too hard to love. But they don’t leave.

Instead, they love me in ways I don’t know how to accept.

They don’t just say the words; they live them. They love me through their actions—in the way they’re patient when I retreat, the way they reach for me even when I’m pulling away.

They hold my fear like it’s something fragile, something worth tending to, but not something to fix or dismiss.

They make me feel seen in a way that terrifies me.

It’s not just the parts of me I’ve carefully curated for the world; they see the things I’ve tried to hide. The way my hands tremble when I’m anxious, the way I clench my jaw when I’m holding back tears, the way I turn everything into a joke to deflect from what I’m really feeling. They see all of it, and they don’t flinch.

They’re steady in the face of my chaos. They stand in the storm with me, not to pull me out of it, but to remind me I’m not alone in it.

They don’t force me to open up, but they leave the door unlocked, the light on, always waiting, always patient.

And it makes me ache, this kind of love. It feels too big, too much, like I’ll never be able to give back what they’ve given me.

But they don’t ask for that. They don’t ask for anything, really. They just stay.

They stay when I try to make it impossible.

They stay when I’m angry or distant or drowning in the weight of my own mind.

They stay even when I can’t say thank you, even when I don’t know how to believe I deserve it.

Maybe one day, I’ll stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe I’ll stop testing their love, stop holding my breath, stop building walls.

Because if someone can see every broken, messy, unlovable part of me and still stay, maybe—just maybe—it means I’m worth staying for.