Most women you meet will say they knew instantly their beloved was the one.
They know as well, when it’s time to say goodbye—even though many live with this knowing for many years before, if ever, acting on it.
She knows the difference even if you think you hide it well. Love, like the most vibrant of colors is something which begs to stand out.
She knows the difference between what you’re truly passionate about and what you feign interest in. The ways your eyes light up and the joy fills your body when you’re discussing a round of golf, the latest gadget you’re working on figuring out or spending time with good friends. It’s palpable.
It’s so evident, she can’t help but notice the slumped shoulders, the far off distant stare and the “yeah'” or “sure’s” uninterestedly given in reply to her.
She can tell the difference and feels the lack. She notices how once, long, heartfelt love notes adorned her inbox or nightstand have turned into two sentenced blurbs that fall just slightly under the character limit for a tweet, when you send them at all.
She can tell the difference in how you can walk by her 1000 times and never once embrace her. She can hardly tell any difference between how you kiss her and how you peck your aunt on the cheek at family gatherings. It’s not a distinction that leaves her feeling good.
She can tell the difference in how willing you are to jump, sing and dance over something you want, something that means something to you and how you brush her efforts off.
She can tell the difference when you can’t wait to cut the grass, but rebuff even her smallest attempts of creating a modicum of intimacy. She can tell how antsy you become if you don’t have something to do yet are unwilling to ever try to involve yourself in something that interests her.
Simply put, she can tell you would prefer that she just live her life, so you can live yours and rarely should the two ever meet.
She can tell the difference between how you treat the things that matter to you and how you treat her.
Every tool in its home, perfectly aligned. The garage fastidious in its organization. Golf clubs dusted, soaped and polished. Your clothing folded just so while she is tossed to the side, put in just any old place, like any old thing that you have no great attachment to.
She can tell the difference between being f*cked and being loved and how disproportionate the two are now. Rather than a Goddess she is left feeling like a tool.
She can tell the difference in how she wakes each morning.
Where you once were the pep in her step, now she makes it her mission to find any reason she can to create joy that’s just hers—that no-one can take away and use as a tool of manipulation. She finds herself trying to get out of the house more and more, not just because it’s enjoyable to spend time with friends, but because she is preparing herself for a life without you.
She can tell the difference in how little she fights now.
Before the relationship and her love for you was a strength that would propel her to fight for the notion of “us.”
She would try to fix flaws, find ways of growing closer and come up with things that could be done to make things better. She would stand up and demand better treatment, ask for what she needs and sometimes even beg for you to hear her; to see her.
Now she just stays silent, nods her head and cries alone when no one is there to make her feel stupid for having a human moment and daring to think she deserves better.
She can tell the difference in her loyalty; all of which once firmly stood in your corner. There was nothing she wouldn’t do when she felt your love strongly. There was no other who could possibly capture her attention much less her heart. She can tell the difference between what was once loyalty but now has turned into obligation.
She can tell the difference between the life she is leading and the one she could.
She knows she could stay and enjoy a certain level of stability but her life would always be seen in between. Between pain and pleasure, loved and settled for. Between intimacy and duty.
She can tell the difference—she sees and feels and has no choice but to accept the difference.
And she knows that sometimes it’s not events of great tornadic proportions that destroy relationships—once filed with great potential. Sometimes it’s the silent and slow death that comes from total indifference.
Love, like the most vibrant of colors, is something which begs to stand out—she can always tell when it’s missing.
To The Women With Warm Hearts & Cold Hands.
Author: Laura Brown
Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock
Read 29 comments and reply