Chapter 1 | Entry Seven

Entry Seven

"There is a particular loneliness in being desired for your mystery but not wanted for your depth, like being chosen for the way candlelight looks on your skin, but not for the prayers you whisper in the dark."

I met someone tonight.

He was charming. Attentive. His eyes lingered on me in that way that makes you feel seen, or desired.

We talked over wine, and I could feel it, that magnetic pull, that attraction humming between us. He leaned in when I spoke. He watched my mouth. He seemed fascinated by me, drawn to something he sensed beneath the surface.

I know this dance. I've always known it.

Men are drawn to my depth the way they're drawn to the ocean, beautiful from the shore, intriguing, mysterious. They want to dip their toes in. They want to say they've been there.

But they don't actually want to swim.

So we talked, and it was easy at first. Playful. A little flirtatious. He liked the version of me that was sensual and present and intriguing. The version that laughs easily and holds eye contact just a beat longer than expected.

And then, because I can't help it, because it's who I am—I went deeper.

I can't even remember what I said. Something real. Something about what I've been learning lately, about the way grief and joy live in the same room in my chest, about how I've been talking to the moon and finding God in the quiet.

Nothing heavy. Nothing intense. Just... real.

And I watched it happen.

The shift in his energy. Not a pulling back—a redirecting. His eyes darkened, dropped to my mouth, then lower. He leaned in closer, his hand finding my knee beneath the table. "You're so beautiful when you talk like that," he murmured, his voice dropping into that register men use when they want something.

But he wasn't responding to what I'd said. He was responding to the fact that I'd opened.

He saw the vulnerability, the realness, the depth—and he tried to turn it into an invitation.

His thumb traced a slow circle on my thigh. "Come home with me," he said, and there was heat in it, desire, but not for my wholeness. For my openness. For the fact that I'd let him glimpse something tender and he thought that meant access.

He wanted to claim the beauty without earning it.

To touch the mystery without honoring the meaning.

To take my sensuality as if it existed separate from my soul.

And I felt it, that specific ache.

The ache of being wanted but not seen.

Of being desired for the allure but not the truth.

Of being chosen for parts of me but not the whole.

I could have let him have it, you know. What he was reaching for. I know how to do that. I could have gone home with him, let him claim my beauty and sensuality without earning it, let him touch the surface of my aliveness without meeting the depth beneath it.

It may have been easier.

He would have gotten what he wanted. Maybe even taken me out on a date again.

But, that's just another way of shrinking.

It's just another way of offering pieces instead of wholeness.

And I've done that before, let men access my body, my sensuality, my beauty while keeping my soul hidden so they wouldn't be uncomfortable with all of me. Let them have the mystery and the allure while I tucked the meaning away.

And it always left me lonely.

Not alone, lonely. The kind of lonely that lives inside of touch, the kind that aches worse than solitude because someone's hands are on your body and you're still unseen.

So tonight, I didn't do it.

I didn't let him take what he hadn't earned. I didn't offer my body while hiding my soul. I didn't give him access to my sensuality without asking him to honor my depth.

I just... stayed whole.

And I watched his interest cool like coffee left too long on the counter.

And it hurt.

Not because I wanted him specifically. But because I'm tired.

Tired of being wanted for my mystery but not my meaning.

Tired of being desired for how I make someone feel but not for who I actually am.

Tired of the way men are drawn to my depth until they realize it's not just aesthetic, it's real, and it asks something of them.

He wanted the ocean at sunset, all golden light and beauty.

But I am also the ocean at midnight, vast and dark and full of things that require courage to explore.

And I need someone who wants both.

Someone who doesn't just want to stand on the shore and watch the waves crash in front of them.

Someone who wants to dive in. Who wants to know what lives in my depths. Who isn't afraid of how far down I go.

I don't know if that person exists.

But I know I can't keep offering pieces of myself and calling it connection.

I know I can't keep hiding my depth so someone can enjoy my surface.

I'd rather be alone and whole than partnered and split into the parts someone can handle.

So here I am.

Still deep. Still whole. Still hoping.

But not willing to be shallow for anyone.

Not even for the promise of being wanted.

—Still whole