Attachment is memory wearing a mask—

and mine has a name stitched into the lining.

I say:

I want them to message me.

Like it’s simple.

Like it’s just a notification.

My body knows better.

My body is a historian—

a sniffer dog

in the ruins of old love.

I want them to message me—

why?

Because the silence is not empty.

It’s loud.

Because a message is a small light

in a long hallway,

and I am still a child

who learned to walk quietly

so no one could accuse her of wanting.

I want them to message me—

and when they do

my chest opens like a door

someone finally remembered

to unlock.

Why?

Because being thought of

feels like proof I’m real.

Because being seen

feels like a miracle

instead of a basic human right.

When you grow up as utility,

attention becomes oxygen.

You don’t notice you’re starving

until someone hands you air.

I want them to message me—

not because I miss them,

not really.

Sometimes I miss

the version of me

that exists in someone else’s mind.

The one who is not just

the keeper of calendars,

the carrier of groceries,

the hand on the small back

when the world tilts.

The one who is wanted

for no reason

that can be invoiced.

I want them to message me

because a message says:

I didn’t forget you.

You are still here.

You didn’t vanish.

And that is the oldest fear I own—

not heartbreak,

not rejection—

erasure.

Because once,

when I finally had

a person,

a place,

a yes

that felt warm and certain—

it disappeared.

Not with a fight.

Not with a dramatic ending.

Just… gone.

Quietly.

Like it was never real.

And something in me learned:

closeness is temporary.

Care has an expiry date.

You will be left holding the door

after everyone else has walked out.

So now attachment wears a mask.

And underneath—

it isn’t “them” I’m waiting for.

It’s her.

The first warmth I learned to track.

The first absence my body memorised.

The original shape of longing—

soft-footed, hopeful,

training itself to expect silence

and call it normal.

So yes—

I may be waiting for them to message,

but really

I am a child

still listening

for the return.

Anxious isn’t a personality.

It’s a weather system.

A barometer.

A storm warning.

It doesn’t want love—

it wants certainty.

Delayed replies

become prophecy.

Pattern turns into meaning.

A home gets built

out of crumbs.

Avoidant isn’t cold.

It’s a locked gate

with a sign that says:

Do not make me responsible

for your hunger.

And here is where I shift it—

where I try the mask on:

I want closeness

with the exits visible.

Intimacy

that doesn’t cost anything.

Wanted—

but not held.

Touched—

but not known.

Because need feels like a hook.

Because closeness feels like debt.

Because if I never fully arrive,

I can’t be left.

And my present becomes

a reenactment.

Not because I’m broken—

because the body repeats

what it hasn’t made safe yet.

Because the future isn’t a prediction.

It’s a pattern

with momentum.

So here’s my work—

not to stop wanting.

But to stop outsourcing my existence

to someone else’s attention.

To let the mask fall

and name what’s under it

without shame:

I want to be witnessed.

I want to be held in mind.

I want to be chosen

without auditioning.

And maybe—

just maybe—

I can start with me.

Not the performance.

Not the utility.

Not the steady girl

who never asks.

Me.

I want them to message me—

and I am learning

to breathe anyway.

To let silence be silence,

not verdict.

To be my own proof.

To be my own witness.

Because if my safety depends

on someone else’s replies,

it isn’t safety.

It’s a leash.

And I am not doing that again.