She has mastered the art of leaving beautifully. She never storms out, never slams doors. Her exits are quiet—just enough to make you wonder, just enough to make you feel the absence before she reappears again.
She leaves because she needs distance to breathe, to reset, to remember who she was before you blurred the lines. Yet, she always returns. And that return is her confession—unspoken, tender, conflicted.
Her comings and goings are not about indecision. They are her rhythm, her way of managing the intensity she feels but rarely admits. The closer she gets, the more she fears losing herself. The farther she goes, the more she realizes how much of herself she leaves behind.
Every return carries a kind of surrender. Not to you—but to the pull she cannot rationalize. You might think it’s inconsistency, but it’s actually a quiet kind of devotion—the kind that tests itself again and again, just to be sure it’s real.
She will always find reasons to step away: a job, a trip, a small misunderstanding. But the real reason is never external. It’s internal—it’s the fear of being seen too deeply, of becoming transparent in front of someone who might understand her too well.
So when she comes back, don’t greet her with questions. Just notice the softness in her movements, the slower tone in her voice. She’s not returning because she has to. She’s returning because, despite herself, she wants to.
And that want, fragile as it is, is the truest thing about her.