You can’t say the wrong thing to the right person

And if you can, they were never yours to begin with.

There’s a mantra I have lived by for years: You can’t say the wrong thing to the right person. And yet, I still find myself perpetually on my tiptoes, dancing around the things I really want to say. It always feels like my words are glass, scratching my throat as I swallow them. My words are delicate and dangerous—one wrong move away from shattering any connection I’ve worked so hard to build. I worry about timing and tone, ultimately obsessing over my strong need to be liked. I’m always terrified to crack the version of myself I’ve so carefully curated. If it shattered, who would like me then?

In dating, I find that I treat connection as if it’s conditional. I give myself and this relative stranger silent deadlines and ultimatums. “If he doesn’t text me by 10 tonight, I’ll text him,” I’ve told my friends. They nod in agreement as though it’s fair and reasonable. Affection starts to feel like something earned through strategy. As if carefully chosen hours could ever protect me from being disliked or be the exact reason someone decides to stay. It’s easy to believe that timing is something that could save me from being ignored or that silence could work as armor against rejection. But really, I know that I will never sit at a wedding and hear someone say in their vows: “Thank God you never double-texted me. If you had, we would never be here.” It sounds absurd because it is absurd. So why do I act like love is an unwinnable game that requires precision and strategic nonchalance?

My brain repeats the same affirmations: If I say the right things all the time, I’ll be chosen. Being ignored is something I can outsmart. If I’m perfect enough, I’ll be impossible to leave.

For all of my life, I’ve felt as though I’m always the yearner, never the yearned for. I’ve spent my life scanning the subtleties of speech and behavior, clinging to the hope that something will confirm that I’m wanted and not just tolerated. There’s a stark contrast between someone saying, “I want you to come” instead of, “You can come if you want.”

In countless rooms, I’ve waited—hoping someone might glance my way mid-laugh just to see if I’m laughing too. But I’m always the one looking first, seeing their eyes already on someone else. Maybe that’s when the shapeshifting began, polishing my personality and sanding the rough edges to create something palatable. I’ve always thought if I could just get it right, I’d finally be chosen.

To be loved is to be seen.

I wait hours to reply to texts because I don’t want to seem too eager. I’ve been conditioned to believe that showing interest is embarrassing, as though it’s a weakness to want someone and express it. I overthink every joke I make, and if I’m not absolutely sure it’ll land, I just don’t make it. I write several drafts of texts as if they’re press releases with the potential of ruining the image I’ve so meticulously sculpted. I want to be clever, but not rehearsed. I want to seem unique, but still relatable. However, in the process of it all, I erase myself.

Recently, I’ve stopped playing that game. I’ve started replying when I want to, no longer counting the hours. I make the joke and know that the right person will laugh at it. I say what I like and don’t pretend to enjoy things just because I think someone else might like me more for it. It’s difficult to unlearn something that I’ve practiced so religiously.

Hypocritically, in terms of the Dating World, if I learned that one of my prospects was repeating the very same affirmations I was, I’d instruct them to just be themselves. After all, isn’t that key? Isn’t that the very lesson that was supposed to be learned during all of those childhood read-alouds? The right person won’t be scared off by sincerity. If they are, they were never right to begin with.

I’ve always resented being reduced, yet I’ve been the one reducing myself. For my entire life, I have cursed people for trying to put all of me—in my nuanced glory—into a tightly closed box. I’ve hated the way people have boxed me in—calling me quiet after ten minutes of silence, rude after misinterpreting my tone of voice, dramatic because I’m a writer. I’ve hated being simplified into labels, yet I’ve labeled myself to make others more comfortable.

It’s fascinating how we all crave to be understood, yet are so quick to place others and ourselves into tidy little categories. It makes the world easier to digest, but people aren’t meant to be easily digested for all to enjoy. We’re not meant to be boxed or branded. We’re meant to be known in all of our contradictions and complexity.

So now, I’ve decided I’d rather be misunderstood than misrepresented. I’d rather say too much than nothing at all. I’d rather be the version of myself that laughs too loudly at her own joke than the one who stays silent in fear.

I’m still unlearning years of aching to be the exception. This has been a recurring dilemma since I was thirteen. Never chosen, just conveniently settled for. Always a good friend, but never a best friend. Always an okay girlfriend, but never a soulmate. I’ve always wanted to inspire poetry and be on the receiving end of love confessions with a side of champagne and strawberries. Still, I am the writer and I am the messenger.

You can’t say the wrong thing to the right person. And if you can, they were never the right one anyway. One day, someone will say it all back to me—and in a room full of laughter, they’ll be the one looking at me first.

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