Those Who Seek Hell Are Destined To Find It

Those Who Seek Hell Are Always Destined To Find It

People think I don’t feel things. That I’m distant. Guarded. Emotionally unavailable. The truth is I feel everything—too much, too fast, too hard. And so I learned to brace for endings before beginnings even finish opening the door. Like preemptively wearing your life vest and donning your oxygen mask while the airplane is perfectly fine.

It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I care too quickly, and then spend the rest of the interaction trying to convince myself that I don’t—because if you knew what was going on behind my eyes, you’d run. Or worse, you’d stay for a while and then run later, once you’ve mapped out all my soft spots. That’s what people do. You let them in and then they destroy you…don’t they?

So I stay two steps behind my own emotions. I keep a layer of glass between me and the moment. I speak in half-truths and clever deflections because being sincere has always cost me more than I could afford.

When I meet someone—friend, or whatever—I’m already running a post-mortem in the background. I imagine what they’ll say when they leave. I imagine how they’ll forget me. I imagine the next person they’ll laugh with in the same way they used to laugh with me. And I carry that grief while I’m smiling at them.

I’ve cried over people before they ever hurt me. Grieved losses that hadn’t happened yet. And when the end finally came, it almost felt like relief. I’d been rehearsing it the whole time.

That’s the secret to surviving heartbreak—expect it. That’s the tragedy of expecting heartbreak—you never get to feel the good parts without suspicion.

So no, I’m not cold. I’m grieving something you don’t even know you’ll take from me yet. I’m holding the death of this moment while you’re still trying to enjoy it.

And maybe that’s fucked up. But it’s the only way I know how to survive without falling apart every time someone says I” care about you” and then stops answering texts three weeks later.

I love quietly. I detach politely. I bleed internally so you don’t have to watch.

Then there’s someone—there’s always someone. Her. The one person who made the static go quiet for a minute. The first person whom I ever felt truly understood. She’s someone who sees through the performance, who knows how to speak gently to the most ruined parts of me without flinching. Someone who could’ve been the place I finally rested. The person who could have quieted the storm.

And that’s the problem.

Because the second I feel that comfort, I ruin it. I push them away—because if they stay too long, they’ll see what I’ve spent years trying to bury under all this practiced detachment.

And the worst part is—I want to be with her. I want the easy Sunday mornings and the stupid inside jokes and the kind of conversations where you stop pretending to be interesting and just are. I want the safety. The softness. Bringing her flowers. Seeing her messy hair in the morning. The funny banter.

The chance to finally be known and not discarded because of it.

But I don’t trust myself not to destroy it. Not even maliciously—just inevitably.

Because I don’t know how to be loved without dissecting it.
I don’t know how to accept kindness without questioning the motive. I don’t know how to believe that she would choose me once she’s seen what I look like underneath the armor. Why me after all? Why would anyone ever choose me at all?

So instead of letting it happen, I vanish. I leave just enough space for them to assume I don’t care, because that’s easier than admitting I care so much it makes me fucking sick.

And now it’s gone. That version of what could have been. Not ruined in a dramatic explosion, but bled out in silence. I miss her in a way I can’t say out loud, because it wouldn’t change anything. I miss the ease I had with her.

But because she deserves something I’ve never been able to give, nothing will ever happen between us: A person that isn’t afraid of themselves.

So I’ll carry that sadness—quietly, deliberately. I’ll tell myself it’s better this way. Even though I know deep down it’s not.