I’m addicted to running away—the thrill of it sustains me.

I’ve fallen in love with leaving.

My life has been a messy masterpiece of mad dashes. It’s always been me, bolting out the back door in exasperated sighs of tornado-like intensity. I leave—always suddenly—packing up at a frustrated moment’s notice, like an unexpected thunderstorm, smack-dab in the middle of a sunny day.

I’ve taken pride in my ability to leave. To be achingly honest, it’s one of my favorite things about myself—that I can pick up at a moments notice, walk away from people I loved and redirect my life.

No one has ever called me out on it.

But you—you see me, so clearly—as my foot slips out the door, as fear strangles my throat again, as I feel too vulnerable again, as I’m preparing to leave again.

We’ve grown so close that it scares me. Our lives are starting to intertwine, thread by thread, into a masterpiece so timeless and stunning it hurts to look at it. I’m scared, darling…

I’m scared.

And you see me, backing away from you, ever so slightly.

You feel that palpable prickle of electricity before the storm, you feel tension crackle in the air as I shut down and short-circuit, moments before my winds blow and sweep me away from you.

You put your hand gently around my waist and peer into me with a look says everything, even though your mouth doesn’t move at all.

No words are needed.

You are asking me to stay.

No one has ever asked me that before.

It would be so easy to leave, so achingly familiar, so like what I’ve always done.

It would be so easy for me to push you away, for you to push me away. We could push each other so far away that we would drift out of sight, deserting this love entirely, feeling indignant, proud and justified—our egos happy, but our hearts broken.

We could go numb, paralyzed by the oozing intensity of our emotions, expertly pretending that what we share doesn’t matter, that we don’t really care.

We could come up with a million flimsy, yet oh-so-extravagant excuses we could tell people for why this didn’t work out.

That would be so much easier.

But I don’t want easy. I don’t want beautifully decorated half-assed cop outs.

I want real.

I want you.

I want this.

I will stay.

I will stay when I’m scared sh*tless, when my legs pulse with electromagnetic intensity, when I’m tender, raw, confused, too terrified to touch you, when I feel vulnerable, like a piece of lace is more substantial than all the rips and torn seams hanging out of my heart.

I will stay.

I will stay, too, when you’re scared and raw, when you’re shut down and sad, when your eyes scramble with past grief like a broken television screen, when your fear is palpably begging you not to look directly at me.

I will stay.  And I will boldly ask you to stay too.

Let’s not take the easy way out. Let’s not use the emergency exit.

Let’s trust in this—what a deliciously revolutionary concept. Let’s allow our hearts to unfold, let’s allow our fears to rear their slimy heads and hold the gentlest space for one another as we experience the true, multifaceted richness that intimacy can be.

Yes, intimacy—real intimacy.

A bridge built intentionally between our hearts. A fabric woven by courage and gut-wrenching honesty. A silk tapestry made beautiful by our ability to plunge right in, even when that feels impossible and scary. A quilt of the finest embroidery forged by the naked depths of our truest vulnerability.

But I ask just one thing of you—be patient with me.

I will be patient with you.

Slowly, we can reveal the places inside that we’ve never let anyone see, like a striptease of leaves dancing to the ground in Autumn, one ruby red maple a time; like a thousand pastel shades revealing themselves slowly in the tender apricot  masterpiece of the morning sunrise sky.

I will stay.

It won’t be easy, but I don’t want easy.

I want you. I want this. I want real.

I want to bite into the juicy apple of intimacy—I want to know, from the quivering depths of my being—what it is to be truly together. I want to know what it is to have a real partner.

So let’s do this, for real.

You look at me—maybe, right through me—and I look right back at you, maybe right through you.

There is absolutely no hiding here, with you.

There is no hiding here, within my own heart.

How deliciously refreshing, on both accounts.

As I fall deeper into your embrace, as my muscles melt into the sublime gentleness of your touch—I realize, I don’t need to run away from you, because I don’t need to run away from myself.

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Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

Photo: Unsplash