SHADOWS BETWEEN US

I used to think love was supposed to feel like being chosen. Not perfectly. Not loudly. Just… consistently. Something steady enough to lean on without falling. That was what I believed when I met Damien Cole in high school. At the time, I didn’t know I was even learning what love was. I just thought I had found someone who made life feel slightly less quiet. Not louder. Not brighter. Just… less empty in certain moments. And I mistook that difference for something important. Damien didn’t feel like a beginning. He felt like something that had already started before I arrived. Like I had walked into a story mid-page and decided to stay anyway. At first, it was simple things. Things that didn’t seem like they needed analysis. A conversation that lasted longer than expected. A message that arrived at the exact moment I was thinking about him. A presence that made ordinary days feel slightly less repetitive. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that looked like a warning. Just enough attention to make me lean in without realizing it. I didn’t notice when I started adjusting myself around him. Not in a single moment. But in small invisible edits. Replying faster so I wouldn’t seem uninterested. Waiting longer so I wouldn’t seem desperate. Choosing words carefully so I wouldn’t sound “too much.” Even the way I thought started shifting. I began rehearsing conversations in my head before they happened. As if I needed to prepare for being understood. Damien wasn’t the kind of person who made promises. He didn’t need to. He operated differently. He gave attention in fragments. Enough to keep me there. Not enough to make me feel fully secure. And somehow, I learned to interpret that imbalance as normal. Some days he was warm. He laughed easily, spoke like everything between us was simple, and acted like I was part of something stable. On those days, I forgot to question anything. On those days, I believed we were fine. Other days, he disappeared into silence. No explanation. No transition. Just absence. And I told myself that was also normal. People were busy. People had moods. People needed space. So I learned not to ask questions that might break the fragile version of connection I thought I had. When he came back later like nothing had happened, I accepted it. Because questioning would mean creating distance. And distance felt like losing him. So I stayed where I was. Even when I didn’t fully understand where “where I was” even existed anymore. I was still learning how people worked. Still learning what love was supposed to feel like. Still learning what I was allowed to expect without feeling guilty for it. So I adapted without realizing I was adapting. And every adaptation made it harder to recognize myself. There were nights I would sit with my phone longer than I intended. Not waiting exactly. Just… available. As if staying close to my phone could somehow keep things from drifting apart. Sometimes I would reopen old messages. Not because I missed anything specific. But because I needed proof that something had once been consistent. Even if it wasn’t anymore. The first real shift was subtle. Almost invisible. It wasn’t what happened. It was what I started doing automatically. Waiting. Measuring. Anticipating. I began to notice how often I reached out first. How often I adjusted myself to fit whatever mood the moment required. And how often I ignored the small discomfort forming quietly inside me. Then came the first request. It didn’t arrive with tension or warning. It was casual. Almost ordinary. Like it belonged in the same category as asking about my day. There was no hesitation in it. No softness. Just expectation wrapped in simplicity. I remember reading it more than once. Not because I didn’t understand it. But because I did. And understanding it made something uncomfortable settle in my chest. A small pause. A thought that didn’t fully form into words. Just a feeling that something had tilted slightly off balance. I hesitated. Only for a moment. A fraction of time no one else would notice. But I felt it fully. That small resistance inside me. A quiet “no” that didn’t have enough strength to become action. The silence that followed my hesitation felt heavier than the request itself. So I said yes. Not because I wanted to. But because it felt easier than explaining why I didn’t. Or worse… admitting I wasn’t sure I could say no. After that, nothing changed. That was the part that stayed with me longer than anything else. Nothing changed. No shift in tone. No acknowledgment that lingered. No sense that my response had carried weight. Just continuation. Like I had participated in something already running without me. And slowly, it became a pattern. Another request. Another moment I told myself wasn’t important enough to question. Another decision I convinced myself didn’t matter. Until the pattern stopped feeling like separate events. It became something continuous. Something I was inside, not observing anymore. I started noticing things I didn’t used to notice. The way I softened my tone before speaking. The way I reread my messages more than once. The way I tried to predict reactions before they came. The way I began to manage myself before anyone else even spoke to me. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was gradual. And that made it harder to see. Even the good moments complicated everything. Because there were still good moments. Moments where everything felt almost normal again. Moments where he laughed like nothing was wrong. Moments where I almost believed I was imagining the imbalance. And those moments didn’t fix anything. They only blurred the edges of reality just enough to make me stay longer than I should have. I told myself I was fine. That maybe I was just overthinking. That maybe relationships were not supposed to feel perfectly balanced all the time. That maybe I needed to be more understanding. But underneath all those thoughts, something quieter was happening inside me. Not breaking. Not disappearing. Just slowly becoming smaller. And I stayed. Not because I was happy. Not because I was certain. But because leaving something still warm in parts felt harder than staying in something uncertain. I didn’t realize then that “yes” could become a pattern you forget how to break. And I didn’t realize that some beginnings don’t announce themselves loudly. Some begin so quietly… you only notice them when they are already ending.