A short note on my experience of being vulnerable…

Being vulnerable is a risk. The weight of it sits heavy on my shoulders some nights, when the lights outside my window whiz past, blurred from the rain and the distant wails of sirens - reminding me how many stories are unfolding at once, how many hearts beating behind locked doors. Mine among them. 

I’ve spent years perfecting the art of casual detachment, wearing it like an expensive coat that never quite keeps out the cold. The truth bleeds through in unexpected moments - catching my own reflection in a stranger’s eyes across a crowded restaurant, or in the trembling of my fingers when someone brushes against them accidentally. These little betrayals of my carefully constructed persona. 

The darkness has always felt safer than the light. In the shadows, no one can see your scars or count the times you've been broken and poorly mended. But there’s a peculiar loneliness in these half-lit spaces between people. A silhouette of what could be, if only I could surrender the ghost of my former cautions. 

What I want - what I ache for deep in the marrow of my bones - is someone who sees through it. Someone who understands that my cynicism is just fear dressed in black, a thin disguise for a heart that longs to beat in time with another’s. To fall asleep to the rhythm of shared breath and wake to the certainty of being known, truly known, and still wanted. A consistency that can be relied on and never questioned.

The city keeps its secrets, and I’ve kept mine. But lately I find myself wondering what would happen if I simply…stopped. If I let the walls crumble stone by stone and stood in the ruins, offering up my undefended self like a strange and precious gift. Maybe that’s the real mystery - not who fired the shot or stole the diamonds, but whether any of us will ever be brave enough to step from the shadows into the terrible, beautiful vulnerability of being loved and risking it all.