Decathexis.
The ceiling has heard more confessions than any god I know.
I’ve asked it why I gave so much to someone who gave so little. It didn’t answer. It never does. But the silence felt kinder than the explanations I used to make up for myself.
I used to call it love. That was my first mistake.
I confused wanting with having.
Confused proximity with promise.
Confused the sound of my own needing with the sound of someone saying my name and meaning it.
Love doesn’t ask for permission. It just arrives. Stays. Leaves. And never explains why.
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I need explanations. I need things to make sense. I need to know what I’m investing in and what I can reasonably expect in return.
It doesn’t do predictability. It doesn’t care about your effort or your patience or your capacity to endure.
That’s a bad investment.
So I stopped asking. Love was never the question. The question was why I kept investing when I already knew the odds.
I wanted to be the person love chose. But you can’t build a home in someone who was never looking for one. And wanting something badly doesn’t make it a sound decision. It makes a costly one.
I don’t believe in love anymore, I don’t think I ever did. I finally understand what it is. Unpredictable. Unreliable. High risk, no guaranteed return.
That’s not something I can plan my life around.
So I stopped expecting it to be anything else.
