When I don’t contact you, it’s not because I don’t want to speak or I’m not missing you. I just don’t want to annoy you. I don’t want to come off as clingy or desperate because somehow—someway—that’s become the norm. Aloofness is a thing apparently, and I don’t want to scare you away. I’ve done it before. My emotions are intense things, some more than most can handle. I never want to unwittingly force them on anyone.
When I don’t reply, it isn’t because I don’t want to talk to you. It’s because I can see the conversation fizzling out. I can see your longer responses and less than enthusiastic replies, and once again, I think to myself, I better hold back. I don’t want to be a bother. You have your own life, and I can respect that you can’t bother with me every hour of every day. That would just be unreasonable.
Just know that I’m here when you can speak, and when you do have something wonderful or utterly appalling to tell me about. I’m here. Always.
God, I’m whipped.
And I realize that whenever the conversation dies and I still check my phone every two minutes for the next hour—just in case. Though more often than not, I’m rather disappointed by the lack of blinking notifications. I wonder if you’ve ever done the same.
If you have, then allow me to assure you that keeping you waiting—or wanting, if I may be so bold—has never been my intention. Nor will it ever be. I’m lucky to have you on my side. I know I am.
And when it comes to you, I’ve never been the forgetful sort.