Page 36 of Love Letters from a Libra
I laughed. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest and I’m here, which is more than what Mr. Meditation can say right now,” Rell corrected.
I clinked my glass against his, grateful for his presence, even when his words were filled with the truth. As much as I wanted to believe Jules was different, as much as I felt something real with him, the evidence suggested that I might be heading for another disappointment.
While that realization settled heavily in my chest, there was comfort in knowing I wasn’t facing it alone and had someone who showed up with wine and popcorn and brutal honesty when I needed it the most.
“Fine. Tell me about your disaster dates this week. I need the distraction,” I conceded, reaching for more popcorn.
Rell grinned, laughing. “Girl, tell me why this man had ‘sapiosexual’ in his bio but spelled it ‘sappy-sexual.’ I should’ve known he wasn’t deep, just emotional and unemployed. Bitch, I’ll give it to him though. He showed up smelling like goals. His cologne was top tier. Conversation? Strictly bottom shelf!” Rell threw his head back and laughed, loud and full-bodied. It came up deep from his chest.
I joined in, cackling, my rings clinking against my glass as I set it down and tapped the table for emphasis as Rell wiped the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I swear, I attract the weirdest men. The algorithm hates me.” Rell laughed.
“Stop, stop. The neighbors are gonna call the police,” I begged, gasping for air.
“Chile, if they did, it would be to get my autograph. See, life goes on, even when the meditation man doesn’t text back,” he insisted.
The reminder of Jules briefly dimmed my smile, but I refused to let it pull me back into the spiral of checking my phone andoverthinking. Instead, I raised my glass to a toast. “To good friends who show up with wine when needed.”
“To setting boundaries,” Rell confirmed, clinking his glass against mine.
After Rell left, I moved through the apartment, collected the wineglasses and the empty popcorn bag and took them to the kitchen. Then I straightened the cushions on the couch, and everything was back in place.
I grabbed my phone out of the drawer and put it on the charger on my nightstand. I climbed into bed, logged into my blog on my laptop, and typed:Sometimes silence doesn’t mean they don’t care, sometimes it’s your cue to stay soft anyway, but for you, not for them.
I took a moment to consider my words. Then I continued:We live in an age of constant connection where absence feels like rejection and silence feels like abandonment. Yet, what if the spaces between the words are as meaningful as the words themselves? What if the silences are where we learn to love who we truly are when we’re not performing connection for someone else?
Just as I finished typing that sentence, my screen lit up on my cell, causing my heart to leap before my brain could catch up. Jules’s name appeared on the screen, and for a moment, I stared at it, almost too afraid to check what he had written after days of silence.
Instead of responding, I set the phone down. My action was deliberate, almost ceremonial. I wasn’t ignoring him but chose not to jump at the first contact after waiting.
I turned back to my blog.The hardest lesson wasn’t learning to interpret silence, but learning to sit with it and allowing it to exist without rushing to fill it with my fears or fantasies. To recognize that sometimes the most powerful response toabsence was your presence, rooted firmly in self-respect and clarity.
I submitted the blog and put my phone on my nightstand. I fluffed my pillows. I wouldn’t respond to Jules, not tonight, not when the wine might make me more vulnerable than I wanted to be.
Tonight was for me to reclaim my narrative, remember that my worth wasn’t determined by someone else’s communication patterns, and find balance in my soul, which was always present but rarely achieved. I turned out the light on the nightstand and made myself comfortable before going to sleep.
Notes App– This is where men like me usually mess it up, overthinking. Show up even if it scares you.
I checked my watch.It was too late for an unannounced visit by most people’s standards, but I wasn’t most people to her, or at least I wasn’t becoming most people until I pulled my disappearing act.
The text I sent replayed in my head for the hundredth time. It was the kind of message that created more questions and answers, the kind designed to maintain distance while pretending to bridge it.
“Fuck,” I whispered, letting my head rest against the steering wheel for a moment. The leather was cool against my skin, grounding me in the reality of what I was about to do or chicken out of doing.
This pattern was so familiar it might as well have been written into my DNA: get close, feel vulnerable, retreat, lather, rinse, repeat. It was a perfect system for maintaining connection without risking intimacy. It worked with Candace until it didn’t. It worked with Imani until it didn’t. It worked right up until the moment someone realized they were getting the appearance of closeness without substance.
Still, Zanaa figured out faster than most. She saw through me in a way that terrified and exhilarated me. When she called me Moon Man, something in me recognized the truth about it. I pulled people’s emotional tides while remaining distant, unreachable, present, but not entirely there. I lifted my head, staring up at her window again. The lilies were an impulse buy from a twenty-four-hour convenience store, the one with the cat that always looked at me like it knew my secrets. I stood in front of the refrigerated flower display for ten minutes, debating whether roses were too intimate or carnations too little. The old man behind the counter finally took pity on me.
“For forgiveness, white lilies. Trust me.”
So I did. Now, they sat beside me, wrapped in green paper that crinkled when I reached for them. I imagined my little sister telling me,“You have a way of disappearing when things get real.”Amir called me out over brunch and saw right through the walls that I thought were invisible, just like Zanaa did.
“You don’t get to be the emotionally intuitive one and still run when someone gets close. That’s not romantic. It’s cowardice,” I muttered to myself with a firm voice.
The truth of this sat heavily on my mind. My phone sat in the cupholder. She hadn’t responded to my message, and I didn’tblame her. If our positions were reversed, I’d be questioning whether the connection was worth the effort, whether I was worth the effort.
