I think the hardest part isn’t the distance.
It’s the uncertainty.
We spent days discussing the distance before we even became play partners. Every worry, every what-if, every fear was laid out and considered. Then we chose to try anyway. We lasted a month as play partners before he confessed his feelings. Feelings that I returned. Then he asked for exclusivity. I was overjoyed. Then he encouraged us to go public. One month, full of softness, trust, and vulnerability — and he chose that path, knowing exactly what it meant.
I can endure missing someone. I can endure longing, waiting, counting time zones, holding space for the future. I can endure the ache of wanting to touch someone I can’t yet reach. I know that pain. I’ve already made peace with it.
What I can’t endure is feeling like the ground beneath me might disappear at any moment.
We’ve been together for a month. One month of being chosen. One month of exclusivity. One month of soft nights, vulnerability, trust, words that mattered. One month of “I love you.” One month of showing up fully, openly, without holding pieces of myself back.
And suddenly, I’m being told this might be something to “endure until he can’t anymore.”
That sentence shattered something in me.
Because love isn’t supposed to feel like a ticking bomb.
It’s not supposed to be something you survive.
It’s supposed to be something you choose — especially when it’s hard.
I don’t need certainty tonight. I don’t need guarantees or timelines or promises written in stone. I don’t even need someone to like long distance. I know it hurts. I know it’s frustrating. I know physical touch matters — it matters to me too.
What I need is to know whether I’m being chosen with intention, or merely tolerated until the pain outweighs the attachment.
There’s a difference between saying “this is hard, but I’m here”
and saying “I’ll stay until I break.”
One makes me feel held.
The other makes me brace myself for impact.
And I hate that I feel embarrassed for caring this much. That this was public. That people know. That I opened my heart and now feel like I might have to gather the pieces quietly if this falls apart. I hate that my instinct is to make myself smaller, quieter, easier — as if that would make someone stay.
It won’t.
Love doesn’t work that way.
I gave him everything I am — not recklessly, not blindly, but sincerely. I showed up with softness, vulnerability, devotion, patience. I was willing to endure the distance because to me, it felt worth it. Not as suffering — but as investment.
And now I’m sitting with the realization that loving someone deeply doesn’t guarantee they’re able to stand in the discomfort with you.
That doesn’t make me foolish.
It makes me brave.
If this ends, it won’t be because I asked for too much too soon.
It will be because I asked for consistency, safety, and intention — and those things couldn’t be met. Even when I promised they would.
I don’t regret loving fully.
I regret that it hurts to do so.
Right now, my heart feels exposed. Tender. Like it’s bleeding in open water. And all I can do is remind myself that choosing love was never the mistake — even if the person I chose is still unsure whether they can choose me back.
Whatever happens next, I know this much:
I deserve to be chosen.
Not endured.