His & Hers

A Story of Anxious and Avoidant Love.

Hers:

I grew up with a desperate need to be chosen. I sought it. I pleaded for it. More often than not in the wrong places.

The other day, I was on the phone with my friend, telling her about the guy I met two weeks ago on a Friday night out. The one who texted me he had very much fun with me the next morning. The one who told me that regardless of him never seeing me again, I was a good person. Well, thanks for softening that punch with a cushion.

I was about to give up. No one will ever be willing to dream with me.

Then I met him. It was … different. As if I was allowed to be myself for the first time in my life.

I never believed that you only get one soulmate for life. Considering that I had zero coming my way for 27 years of my life, he has a very high chance of taking one of the spots.

---

His:

My mind keeps circling back to her, the girl I met at the bar a few weeks ago, the one I had some fun with. She stirred something in me, and not just the heat that rises when I remember her hands on me. It felt real. More real than I expected. More real than I want.

We exchanged numbers. I was honest, at least. I didn’t promise her anything. She seemed like a genuinely good person, the kind who deserves more than half-measures and late-night maybes. Maybe I’ll never see her again. Maybe that’s for the best.

That was the right thing. Wasn’t it?

We had fun. She’s great. But I’m not in a position for something serious. Even if it felt right. I never led her on. If she felt let down, if she wanted more, she could’ve reached out. She never even texted back.

So what do I have to feel guilty about? Nothing. Just another girl to forget.

Except I can’t forget her. The way she smiled at me, laughed with me, the sparkle in her eyes, it was everything.

There was something there. Undeniable. I should’ve reached out sooner. Now it feels too late. I can’t let her see what’s underneath anyway, the quiet loneliness, the wanting, the bruises I carry and the ones I’ve left on other people.

“Hey, hope you’re well.”

Regret lands instantly. Stupid. Desperate. Transparent.

---

Hers:

I went to see a doctor today. I kept feeling dizzy, unable to focus. My stomach felt fuzzy.

The doctor said I didn’t have a concussion.

I bought a Kinder Surprise on my way home. The drizzle was turning into rain. I wasn’t in our neighbourhood anymore. I was in the car with my mother. She was taking me to kindergarten. Her lips kept moving but my crying hiccups compressed her words. She reached for the glove box and pulled out something small and round. I blinked twice, and the taste of chocolate spread across my mouth.

The trees wore the same wet glint. It was raining. I saw at our neighbour walking his dog.

I pulled my keys from my bag and walked into my house. Something was buzzing in my bag. I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up.

“Hey, hope you’re well.”

It was him! My stomach turned fuzzy. I stood there. Not still. Shaky.

I can’t believe he texted. He actually texted!

“Hey, hope you’re well.”

“Hey, hope you’re well.”

“Hey, hope you’re well.”

I pressed my phone against my chest and entered my flat. I walked straight to the bathroom, my eyes searching for the thermometer.

Nonsense. I like him. Way too much. And he texted. He must like me back.

The blue night. The pounding hearts. That night was a blast.

My thumbs traced invisible circles above the screen.

“I could be better if we met for a drink.”

What did I just do?! I archived the conversation. Then I turned the music on. Loud.

---

His:

“I could be better if we met for a drink.”

I exhale and catch myself rolling my eyes before I even realize I’m doing it. That was fast. Too fast?

It’s not that I don’t like her. I do. That’s the problem. If I didn’t, this would be easy. It would just be drinks. Just drinks. Then what? I know how this story goes. I tell myself I’ll keep it light, keep it cool. I never do. I don’t like who I am when I drink, looser, louder, promising things I can’t hold onto in the morning. Another blurred night. Another version of me I’ll have to apologize for.

I could just not drink.

I laugh. Right. Since when have I ever had that kind of restraint?

My fingers drum restlessly against the curve of my knee, a nervous rhythm I can’t seem to quiet. Maybe I am being too hard on myself?

Am I though? I have a track record. Patterns don’t lie. And it’s not like I promised her anything. I was clear. I didn’t owe her more. So why does this feel like a test I’m about to fail?

A minute passes. Then five. I stare at the screen, willing the read receipt not to betray me. Has she seen that I’ve opened it? Why do I care? What is wrong with me?

Why do I feel like I owe her something?

She’s a girl I met a few weeks ago. That’s it. And yet the thought keeps cutting through the noise: she deserves better than what I give.

My thumbs hover. Overthinking is just fear dressed up as logic. I could just text another, someone easier, someone who doesn’t give me that dangerous feeling in my stomach.

“That sounds like fun. When?”

I send it before I can reconsider.

Something in me won that argument. I just hope it was my heart, and not the part of me that always wins when the lights get low and the hour gets late. So why am I left feeling empty?

Still, it was a good text. Neutral. Confident. Ball back in her court.

---

Hers:

I left my phone downstairs. I didn’t want to spend my evening waiting for nothing in particular.

Far too many minutes later, I was still staring at the ceiling when my stomach growled. I skipped dinner.

My nails were looking bad. I forced myself out of bed to grab the nail polish, but then I grabbed my phone from downstairs instead.

My arm rose while my hand held my phone. My eyes were fixated on the wall. I took a deep breath and put my phone down.

I should’ve kept up with the no-dating rule. If I were to spend last year like this, I could’ve ended up homeless.

Being single was far less costly.

My muscles, declaring their own freedom, gave a command that I did not approve of. My cheeks started to hurt from the smile that placed itself on my face every time I thought about his laughter. The way we laughed together.

The oxygen started weighing on my lungs, not realizing that I had been holding my breath since… I don’t know, that night?

I was about to put my phone away when my gaze was caught by the number 5 next to the archive messages box.

Wait. I had four earlier.

My heart started pounding. In my throat.

Five things I see. The L couch. The coffee table. The half-finished pasta plate. Yuck. My ugly nails. The ceiling.

Four things I can hear.

My ears were buzzing.

You’ve got this. Take a deep breath.

“That sounds like fun. When?”

I had to grab a pillow. I didn’t want to disturb my neighbours. After clearing all the air from my lungs, I reached for my phone.

“How about, now?”

My nervous system was too worn out to have another day like this.

---

His:

“How about now?” I read.

My head falls back against the cheap drywall, harder than I mean it to. The sting blooms instantly, and the tears that gather at the corners of my eyes, I blame on the impact.

I stare at the ceiling, tracing the uneven swirls in the dried paint, letting my eyes follow the shapes the way I used to as a kid. Back when I believed in love. Back when hope didn’t feel like something naïve.

Of course I want to. Part of me does. A few parts, actually.

The part that knows that with a couple of drinks, the right tone of voice, the right whispered promises, I almost believe myself, I could have her back here. The part that knows exactly how that night would unfold, how easily I could slip into something warm and temporary. And then what? Another morning. Another quiet shame. Another apology forming before the sun is even up.

Then there’s the other part. The quieter one. The one that wonders what would happen if I didn’t follow the script. If I could crack the walls I’ve built, climb them, dig beneath them, let someone in before they slam shut again. It wasn’t just how she looked, though she’s beautiful. It was how I felt around her. Lighter. Seen.

But those walls are high. Solid. Familiar. Even when I start to scale them, they seal themselves back up, and I retreat to what I know best.

No. I’d be doing her a favor. She deserves the world, far more than I could ever give.

Still, my pulse has quickened. She deserves better. But I’m still a man with needs.

I send a few half-hearted feelers into the night, looking for something easier. Something that won’t ask anything of me. A wave of shame crashes in, but the ghosts of past bodies flare up in my mind, the memory of touch, of being wanted without expectation.

Then I type back to her. Desire tangled with restraint. Want knotted tight with guilt.

“Ah, I’m sorry I have plans tonight. Maybe another time.”

---

Hers:

Every second passed like an hour while I waited for his reply.

He was going to say yes. He seemed so keen from the beginning. He was the one who sent the first text to begin with.

He was going to say yes.

My phone buzzed. I buzzed with it.

“Ah, I’m sorry I have plans tonight. Maybe another time.”

Cool. Okay. He has plans. My suggestion was last minute anyway.

“Maybe another time.”

Why is there a maybe?

Didn’t he just ask “when”? Why is there a maybe now?

Maybe another time.

I started pacing the same steps over and over again in my flat, occasionally grabbing my phone and then leaving it back on the couch.

He will send a follow-up. I’m sure of it. He will suggest another date. Right?!

The next time I looked at my watch, it was 1:00 AM. I managed to get a hold of myself from looking every three minutes. Now I looked every five minutes. My phone didn’t buzz.

I was making my way over to the bathroom when a crying storm broke out. I couldn’t look at the gaze facing me in the mirror while I replayed our conversation in my mind over and over again.

It was obvious. I scared him off.

“I could be better if we met for a drink.”

Why did I say that?! It obviously made me look needy.

Suddenly, my phone started buzzing. I didn’t reach for it. I jumped on it. Until I saw who it was.

It was my father.

I took a deep sigh and picked up his call.

“Hey, sweetheart!”

“Hey, Dad.”

“How are you?” my father said.

“I… have been better,” I replied.

“And why is that?” he said.

Words started to fall from my lips before I gave them permission to.

“There was this guy I liked. He didn’t want to meet tonight,” I said.

“Well, you shouldn’t be so inviting towards guys, sweetie,” my father said.

My eyebrows were immediately pulled upward.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We talked about this. You’re great, but not everyone can see that. You should be more mysterious. Don’t be yourself this much,” my father said.

“Noted, Dad. I won’t be myself,” I said.

“That’s my girl,” my father replied.

I was no longer able to speak. An invisible knot surrounded my throat. I wasn’t sure if I was even breathing.

It was always there.

I kept calling it devotion.
It was just erasure.
And no one ever chose what disappeared.

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