Entry Four: "The Effort of Wanting"

Dear Moon,

I thought determination would be enough.

Three dates in, and I'm still trying. Still showing up. Still telling myself the same story: Give it time. Chemistry can grow. You're being too picky. He's good. He's kind. He's here.

When he texts to ask me out again, I say yes immediately. No hesitation this time. I'm committed to this. To him. To the possibility of us.

He suggests a rooftop wine bar. Says he's been wanting to take me there. That the view is incredible, especially at sunset.

He arrives early and has a bottle of wine ready. The place is beautiful, open air, large oak trees, string lights draped overhead, low couches arranged around fire pits. And the view. Amazing. Rolling hills stretching out in every direction, golden in the late afternoon light. The kind that makes you feel small and expansive at the same time.

I arrive right on time. He smiles when he sees me. Leans in for a hug that lingers just long enough to feel intentional.

"You look amazing in that dress," he says.

"Thank you," I say. And I do feel good. I wore the dress I feel most myself in. Did my hair the way I like it. Showed up as the version of me I want to be.

We settle onto one of the couches. He pours me a glass of the wine, something he researched ahead of time, he tells me. "I first tried this wine when I was here for a work event, it's delicious. I think you'll like it."

We toast. The first sip is rich, smooth, exactly what I would have chosen.

See? I tell myself. He cares. He's trying.

The conversation flows easily. It always does with him. He asks about my week, and I tell him about a breakthrough I had at work. He listens, asks follow-up questions, genuinely engages. Then he tells me about his week, about the progress he's made on his project, a challenge he's navigating. I listen. I care. I want to care.

He makes me laugh. A story about his nephew, told with perfect timing. I laugh genuinely, not performatively. It feels good to laugh.

The sun starts to set. The hills turn bright amber, then rose, into deep purple. The string lights overhead flicker on. The fire pit crackles beside us. It's incredibly romantic. The kind of setting you'd see in a movie and think, Yes, this is what a perfect date looks like.

And I'm trying so hard to feel it.

Trying to let the beauty of the moment seep into my body. Trying to let his presence, his warmth, his attention, his effort, translate into desire.

But it doesn't.

Instead, there's just... effort. The constant, exhausting effort of trying to feel attraction, when I don't.

He shifts closer on the couch. His arm rests along the back, not quite touching my shoulders but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

"I'm really glad we're doing this," he says, his voice softer.

"Me too," I say. And I mean it. I want to mean it.

He looks at me. Really looks at me. His eyes are kind. Warm. Present.

And then he leans in.

I see it coming. I have time to prepare. Time to tell myself: Just let it happen.

Don't overthink it. Maybe this is the moment everything shifts.

But as his face gets closer, I feel it.

The brace.

Not a thought. Not a decision. Just my body, tightening. Pulling inward. Bracing for impact.

His lips meet mine.

And I kiss him back.

But it's mechanical. Choreographed. Like I'm following steps I memorized but don't feel. My lips move. My body stays still. There's no pull. No surrender. No melting into him.

Just... work.

The effort of trying to feel something. The effort of overriding what my body is screaming. The effort of pretending this is what I want.

He pulls back, smiling. "I've been wanting to do that for a while."

He leans in again. Kisses me longer this time.

And I feel nothing.

No spark. No heat. No magnetic pull that makes me forget where I am.

Just the awareness of every second passing. The awareness of how hard I'm working to stay present. The awareness that this should feel good, and it doesn't.

When he finally pulls back, I make an excuse. "I should probably get going. Early morning tomorrow."

"Of course," he says. "Let me walk you to your car."

He does. He hugs me goodnight. Tells me he had a great time. That he can't wait to see me again.

"Me too," I say.

I get in my car. Close the door. Sit in the silence.

And then I drive.

The streets are quiet. The city lights blur past. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white.

What's wrong with me?

The question loops in my mind, relentless, accusing.

He's perfect. He's kind. He's thoughtful. He's present. He's trying. He's doing everything right.

So why can't I just want him?

I think about the kiss. The way my body braced. The way it felt like work, not pleasure. The way I had to convince myself to stay in it, to not pull away, to perform the role of woman who wants to be kissed.

Desire shouldn't require convincing.

The thought lands hard, undeniable.

If I have to work this hard to feel it, it's not real.

But then the other voice comes, the one that sounds like doubt and fear and all the ways I've been told I'm too picky, too demanding, too unwilling to compromise.

Maybe you're broken. Maybe you're sabotaging something good. Maybe you're chasing a fantasy that doesn't exist.

I pull into my driveway. Turn off the engine. Sit in the dark.

The truth is, I don't know.

I don't know if I'm being honest or self-sabotaging. I don't know if I'm listening to my body or running from intimacy. I don't know if the problem is him or me or just the fundamental mismatch of two good people who don't fit.

All I know is this:

I'm exhausted.

Exhausted from trying. From overriding. From convincing myself that logic should be enough, that partnership can be built on kindness and compatibility alone, that desire is optional or negotiable or something you can talk yourself into.

But you can't.

I can't.

And maybe that's the lesson hiding in this discomfort. Maybe my body is teaching me something my mind doesn't want to hear: that I can't build a life with someone

I have to convince myself to want.

Even if he's perfect on paper.

Even if everyone would tell me I'm crazy to walk away.

Even if I don't know what I'm looking for or if it even exists.

I get out of the car. Walk to my door, and let myself in.

The house is quiet. Dark. But it's mine.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

And I ask the question I've been avoiding:

What if there's nothing wrong with me? What if this is just... not right?

I don't have an answer yet.

But I'm starting to think that the exhaustion itself is the answer. That desire, real desire, shouldn't feel like this. Shouldn't require this much effort. Shouldn't leave me gripping the steering wheel, asking myself what's wrong with me.

Maybe the discomfort is the compass.

Maybe my body is trying to save me from settling.

Maybe this is what clarity looks like when you're brave enough to listen. I don't really know.

I don't know what I'll do next. I don't know if I'll see him again, if I'll give it one more chance.

I'm tired of trying to want someone I don't... but he is so good.

—Still here, still trying, still confused