I don't know what's real anymore. I'm completely disoriented. No idea what this is, what it means, what they want from me, what I am to them.
And I can't ask. Because asking feels like exposing myself more than I already have.
Coming up to Christmas, I had the whole thing sorted. Spending it alone — no family, no plans, just me. I'd made peace with that, or at least I'd rehearsed the explanation well enough that it felt like peace. “It's fine… probably better than stressing over other people.”
When you work closely with people, life spills in whether you want it to or not. Someone heard my explanation and just looked at me. The saddest eyes I've ever seen. Didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
It broke me a little. And he saw that.
After that, we started talking. Not about Christmas at first, just everything else. We'd known we operated the same way at work — same frustrations, same standards, same exhaustion from caring when everyone else does the bare minimum. But then it went deeper. Upbringings. Patterns. Things I don't talk about with anyone.
The similarities were disturbing. But they felt safe. So we kept going.
Hours and hours. Things I've never told anyone. Things they've never told anyone. This vulnerability that felt mutual. This exposure that felt worth it because finally — finally — someone who actually gets it.
And I thought they felt it too. The connection. The understanding. The sense that we're on the same frequency in ways that matter.
But I don't know anymore.
Because it only exists within work. Within the nine to five. We can talk for hours about the deepest shit, but only if we're in the office. Only if it's work hours. Outside of that? Nothing.
And I don't understand what that means. Is this real or am I projecting meaning onto someone being nice to a colleague? Is the connection genuine or am I just useful sometimes when they're bored or need someone who gets it?
Then Christmas happened. They left. We didn't speak at all.
I heard different versions of how it went for them. Sometimes great, sometimes horrible. I don't know which is true. Maybe they don't either.
They came back a week before me. Sent me a text that day. And it felt like they were bored at work and I wasn't there yet.
Maybe that's unfair. Maybe that's the old wound making me assume the worst. But I can't tell what's real observation and what's my brain confirming its own narrative.
Now we're back and it's this push-pull thing that's fucking with my head. Some days it feels like before — genuine, deep, the understanding is there. Other days we're just colleagues. Surface-level. Nothing underneath.
And I don't know how to navigate that. Don't know if they're struggling with the same shit I am — the avoidance, the compartmentalisation, the inability to let anyone in properly. Or if they just don't care enough for it to matter outside work.
I keep searching for signs either way. Monitoring every interaction for clues about what's real. Some days there are glimpses of something genuine. But those could just be normal. Standard colleague behaviour. Not evidence of anything.
And I'm stuck here. Wanting to believe the connection is real whilst knowing I'm probably reading too much into it. Wanting them to care whilst knowing that's not something I can make happen. Wanting clarity whilst being too scared to ask for it because asking means admitting how much this matters to me.
Here's what I can't work out: do they understand what this is doing to me? Do they know that the inconsistency — the days where it feels real followed by days where it doesn't — is destabilising? That I can't tell if they care at all or if I'm just someone they talk to when it's convenient?
Or are they as confused as I am? As avoidant? As unable to navigate this?
I don't know. And not knowing is its own torture.
Because the wound — the foundational belief that I don't matter — was caused by people. My parents. Relationships that ended. Friendships that dissolved. Every time I've cared about someone more than they cared about me. The wound came from people.
And it feels like it can only be healed by people. By someone genuinely and repeatedly showing me that I do matter. That care can be sustained. That understanding leads to being valued, not just temporarily useful.
But needing that puts me right back in the pattern. Makes me vulnerable to the exact thing that broke me. Puts me here, desperately trying to work out if they care whilst knowing I'm probably projecting.
And when someone finally does seem to understand — when the conversations feel real, when the similarities are undeniable, when you're clearly on the same frequency about enough things that you're not imagining it — and it still doesn't translate to anything outside of work hours, what does that confirm?
I don't know if they truly understand. I think they do. The conversations suggest they do. There are enough genuine similarities, enough moments where something landed that couldn't have been performed or coincidental. I'm not stupid. I'm not fully delusional.
But there are differences too. Perspectives that diverge. Things that don't quite match. And I don't know how much of the understanding I've constructed, filled in the gaps where the connection felt close enough. Don't know how much is real and how much is me, desperately wanting someone to finally be on my wavelength, seeing what I needed to see.
And that uncertainty is its own torture. Because I can't even grieve a connection that definitely existed. Can't point to something real and say: this happened and then it didn't. I'm left questioning whether the thing I thought was there was ever fully there at all.
What I do know: being understood — or thinking you're understood, or wanting so badly to be understood that you can't tell the difference — changes nothing if it doesn't lead to being cared about. And needing them to care — needing anyone to care — is the most impossible situation to be in.
Because the thing that might heal me is the exact thing most likely to confirm the wound was right all along.