The Space Between Wanting and Worthiness

I didn’t expect the unraveling to begin the moment he returned from his overseas trip.

If anything, I had been looking forward to that return all week.

I missed him.

I missed the way his smile lit up a room, the way he held me, the spark he carried in his voice when he talked about new experiences. I couldn’t wait to reconnect, to hear about his adventures, and yes — even about his short-term romantic flames.

Not because I’m jealous.

I’m not.

Jealousy was never the issue between us.

In fact, one of the things I cherished most about our dynamic was how open, honest, and transparent he was about his other lovers. I loved that part. Truly. I loved the way he spoke about pleasure, attraction, connection — not in a way that threatened me, but in a way that made me feel included in his world.

What I needed wasn’t exclusivity.

What I needed was importance.

I told him that early on.

I wanted to feel like I mattered — like I wasn’t just one of many, but someone he held with intentionality. And for a moment, it looked like he understood that. He gave me a drawer early on, and that drawer mattered more than I ever admitted out loud. It made me feel like I had a place of prominence in his life, like I wasn’t just passing through.

But as time went on, I realized something painful:

He had given me physical space in his room —not meaningful space in his life.

And that truth began to settle into me, quietly, long before the breakup itself.

---

When Isaac finally returned from his trip, he mentioned — almost shyly — that he’d had some realizations while he was away. That he’d “made mistakes.” That he wanted to be more considerate moving forward.

His tone was soft.

Thoughtful.

Honest.

A part of me wondered if he meant me.

A part of me hoped he did.

By Saturday, I felt a wobble in my chest I couldn’t ignore. I wanted to see him. I wanted that early-days tenderness, the ease we had before things started feeling uneven.

So I asked if he wanted to grab lunch the next day.

He said he wasn’t sure when his houseguest would be heading out, but he’d let me know.

Reasonable.

But something in my body tightened anyway.

It didn’t matter that the friend staying with him was a woman he cared for deeply — their bond was real, intimate in its own way, but never threatening to me.

What mattered was whether he could hold me in his awareness alongside everything else in his orbit.

The day had passed with no update.

No check-in.

No clarity.

When I finally texted, “Never mind — I accepted other plans for tomorrow,” he replied warmly:

“Okay! I hope you have a great Sunday tomorrow!”

That was the moment I said it:

“Tomorrow is my birthday.”

He apologized immediately. I know he felt bad. But the forgetting wasn’t what hurt.

What hurt was the realization that my desire to see him hadn’t even been part of the conversation with his friend. Not a question. Not a check-in. Not a moment of, “Hey, she asked about lunch — what time were you thinking of leaving?”

Just… nothing.

And nothing speaks volumes.

---

We were able to meet on my birthday after all.

I let him speak first.

He told me more about his trip.

About dating abroad — more than I knew about.

About juggling too many women.

About the exhaustion of trying to accomodate everyone.

About wanting to slow down.

A part of me still hoped “slowing down” meant turning toward me.

But the hope was already thinning.

When it was my turn, I told him the truth.

That I hadn’t been feeling valued.

That something had shifted.

That I’d started to shrink around him in ways I promised myself I wouldn’t shrink ever again.

I watched the truth land.

I saw the way it hurt him.

I saw how much he cared — his hands resting warm around my legs, holding me close —

and yet the emotional reach I needed wasn’t there.

I kept waiting for that moment — the reach.

The reassurance.

The “I want this. I want you.”

But instead there was only care, and sorrow, and the quiet agreement neither of us named:

He didn’t have the capacity —

or the desire —

to choose me in the way I needed.

And he didn’t deny it.

I sat there thinking,

Are we actually breaking up right now?

Is he going to stop this?

Is he going to say he wants me?

But those words never came.

We cried.

He held me.

And something sacred ended.

---

I thanked him.

I meant it.

I told him he created a space where I felt safe enough to fall in love with someone new again — something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel since Troy. He opened a door in me that I wasn’t sure would ever open again. For that, I will always be grateful.

A part of me hopes that someday, in another season, when the stakes are softer, we might revisit something light and fun. But not now. Not while the tenderness is fresh. Not while choosing something casual with him would mean settling.

If anything ever happens between us again,

I want intention —

from both of us,

but especially from him.

---

If I’m honest, I do miss the relationship —

the sweet flirtations between meetings,

the playful messages I used to look forward to,

the feeling of being held lightly in someone’s daily rhythm.

There’s an ache in realizing those moments won’t be waiting for me on my phone anymore.

But underneath that ache lives another one — deeper, more primal, more rooted in the body than the mind.

It’s the desire I miss.

The chemistry that lived in my body long after each encounter —

the deep, molten awareness that stayed with me,

the tenderness and stretch of being filled by him,

the way my body would ache with that delicious post-sex soreness

that told me we hadn’t held anything back.

His noises stayed with me too —

the way his breath would hitch,

the way his voice dropped into something primal and unguarded.

Those sounds lived in my ribcage for hours afterward.

Losing that has its own ache —

not a sorrow that pulls me backward,

but a pulse of truth that shows me I can feel this deeply again.

My sensuality is alive.

My heart is alive.

I am alive.

---

I always knew he wasn’t forever.

I thought we’d have more than two months, but I always knew the story would be short.

I’ve never minded being a rebound.

I actually enjoy being a rebound.

There’s freedom in loving someone whose heart is newly open.

There’s sweetness in being the first soft place they land.

But even rebounds deserve to feel important.

To feel chosen.

To feel like they matter in every moment they’re held.

And on my birthday — my beginning —

I realized I couldn’t keep choosing someone

who wasn’t choosing me back.

So I didn’t end things because I wanted to.

I ended things because my soul refused to shrink.

And that, more than anything, is what worthiness feels like.