It always happens the same way. You finally let your guard down—words spill that you’ve been holding for weeks, maybe months. The moment feels fragile, honest, like something important is about to shift. And then she changes the subject. Effortlessly. As if the air itself has turned.
She asks about something ordinary—your dinner plans, a name on your phone, the weather. It’s jarring. It almost feels like rejection. But if you listen closely, it isn’t avoidance—it’s protection.
She changes the subject not because she doesn’t care, but because she cares too much. The truth you reveal stirs something in her that she isn’t ready to confront. Vulnerability makes her pulse quicken; not out of discomfort, but fear—fear of what she might admit if she stays too long in that space.
Some people run from pain. She runs from closeness. The kind that can’t be controlled or reasoned with. And in her world, control is everything. It’s how she stays safe. So she builds walls made of ordinary words, everyday topics, and small distractions. She hides behind them because she knows how dangerous true connection can be—how it unravels all the defenses carefully built over time.
But notice this: even as she changes the subject, she never leaves completely. Her eyes linger, her tone softens, her hands fidget. She’s still there, silently hoping you’ll catch the contradiction. She wants you to notice that her distance isn’t indifference—it’s longing, disguised as caution.
So don’t mistake her deflection for disinterest. She’s not running away from you. She’s running away from the part of herself that still believes she could fall, if she stays too long.