Entry Thirteen: "Chemistry Without Consistency"

"I thought chemistry would be enough. But attraction that disappears between meetings isn't connection. It's just... a high."

When we're together, it's electric.

That's the thing that keeps pulling me back.

The first date is at a nice restaurant downtown. Exposed brick, candlelight, the kind of place designed for intimacy. He's already there when I arrive, standing to greet me with a smile that reaches his eyes.

In his hand, a small bouquet of roses. Deep red, wrapped in paper.

"For you," he says, handing them to me. The gesture is smooth, practiced, but it lands. He's thought of this. He wanted to do it right.

The conversation flows. He's charming, quick-witted, the kind of person who makes you feel like you're the only one in the room. He leans in when I talk, touches my hand lightly when he's making a point, laughs at my jokes in a way that feels genuine.

I feel it in my body, the flutter in my chest, the warmth spreading through me, the way I catch myself smiling without meaning to.

This is what I've been missing, I think. This aliveness. This pull.

When he walks me to my car, the night air is cool against my skin. He steps closer, and I can smell his cologne,

something woody and warm.

"I had a really good time," he says.

"Me too."

He kisses me.

It's soft at first, tentative, then deeper. I taste his lips, slightly sweet, with a hint of his old fashioned left behind. His hand comes up to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. The warmth starts in my chest and spreads outward, down through my stomach, into my limbs. It's the kind of kiss that lingers, that you feel even after it ends.

When we pull apart, I'm breathless.

"I'll text you," he says.

I drive home with the windows down, the cool air rushing in, my lips still tingling. I feel hopeful. Alive.

That night, I lay in bed with my phone on the pillow beside me. The sheets are cool and soft against my skin. I check my messages before I fall asleep.

Nothing yet.

The next morning, I check again. Still nothing.

By the second day, the checking becomes a ritual. I wake up and reach for my phone before I'm fully conscious. I refresh my messages while I make coffee. I glance at the screen between tasks at work.

Each time, there's a small jolt, hope rising, then falling when I see the empty screen.

My chest starts to feel tight. Not painful, just... compressed. Like I'm holding my breath without realizing it.

On day three, I text him: Hey! How's your week going?

I watch the screen. The message shows as delivered. Then read.

I wait.

Six hours later, he responds: Crazy busy. How are you?

The jolt of seeing his name on my screen is immediate, a rush of relief, of electricity returning. We exchange a few messages. Surface-level. Pleasant. But the energy from our date is gone.

I suggest meeting up again.

I'd love to. Let me check my schedule and get back to you.

He doesn't.

A week passes. The tightness in my chest becomes familiar. I stop checking my phone as often, but the waiting is still there, a low hum of tension I carry through my days.

Then, late one evening, my phone buzzes.

Sorry I've been MIA. Work has been insane. Dinner this weekend?

The electricity returns instantly. My heart jumps. I feel it, the same warmth, the same pull.

And just like that, I'm back in.

The second date is just as good. Better, even. He's attentive, present, asking about my week, listening to my stories, making me laugh. When he kisses me goodnight, it's longer this time, more certain. I feel it everywhere, in my chest, my stomach, the tingling in my fingertips.

"I'm really glad we're doing this," he says, his forehead resting against mine.

"Me too," I say.

And I mean it.

But then he leaves again.

And the pattern repeats.

Days of silence. A text that feels like breadcrumbs. A date that feels electric. Then... nothing.

I start to notice how much energy I'm spending trying to hold onto the feeling from when we're together.

At night, I lie in bed with my phone face-up on the nightstand. The room is dark except for the glow of the screen when I check it. My body feels heavy, tired in a way that sleep won't fix. I refresh my messages. Nothing. I set the phone down. Pick it up again five minutes later.

The hope and disappointment alternate like waves. Each time I see his name, my chest lifts. Each time the message is just a brief reply hours later, it sinks again.

My shoulders start to ache from the tension I'm carrying.

One night, three weeks into this cycle, I'm lying on my bed. The comforter is soft beneath me, the room lit only by the lamp on my nightstand. 

My phone buzzes.

Miss you. When can I see you?

I stare at the message.

And instead of feeling excited, I just feel... tired.

My shoulders are heavy. My chest feels hollow, like something has been scooped out and I'm just carrying the empty space.

Tired of the inconsistency. Tired of the push and pull. Tired of feeling alive only when he decides to show up.

This isn't connection.

It's addiction.

To the high of being seen. To the rush of chemistry. To the hope that maybe this time, he'll stay.

But he won't.

Because he's not looking for something steady. He's looking for something easy. Something that fits into his life when it's convenient. Something that doesn't require him to show up consistently.

And I can't build anything on that.

I sit up. My fingers hover over the keyboard.

I type: I don't think this is working for me. I need more consistency than this.

I hit send before I can second-guess it.

The response comes immediately: I get it. Sorry if I made you feel like an option. You're not.

But I was.

And I'm done being treated like one.

—Still here, still learning, still exhausted