He isn’t giving me any boundaries to violate.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I literally tried to test his tolerance for romantic terrorism and he passed. I wore his shirt. I opened the door to his ex while still dripping with afterglow. I threatened HOA violence in broad daylight and he just looked at me like I invented joy. He cuddled me afterward.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
He drove me to his house. Not a hotel. Not a sad backseat fumbling. His. House.
And then he asked me to stay. And I did. And we had sex in his bed, like homeowners. Like a man with a 401k and a Costco membership just decided I was his reward for a life well-lived.
Rhys. I made one sarcastic joke about murder and he offered me garlic Ritz and cuddles. Do you understand the psychological implications of that kind of emotional safety? I am in danger.
I need an emergency session. Immediately. Preferably before I propose to him with a ring I make out of his hoodie strings and the pop tab from a La Croix.
Please advise.
Rhys Journal
Are you ghosting me?
Because I definitely told the woman on your office hotline that this was urgent. I was very clear that I needed to talk. That she could relay my message and let you decide.
Is this you deciding?
Are you with that model again?
The one with legs so long she probably doesn’t even need a therapist because her serotonin is stored in her kneecaps?
Is that what it takes to get your attention?
Because frankly? That’s rude.
Some of us can’t reach the overhead cabinets or emotional stability, and we still deserve proper, attentive therapy.
Just because I don’t walk around in linen pants and moonlight as a Pilates instructor doesn’t mean I’m not a worthy little bundle of trauma.
I don’t need much. Just validation. Patience. An occasional, “that’s not healthy, Delilah” delivered with gentle eye contact and enough clinical distance that I can pretend you’re not hot.
Benji Journal
I don’t even know what to put here. Are we engaged now? Because it feels like we’re engaged.
You took me home. Not a hotel. Not a car quickie. Your actual bed. Like I’m not just your problem. I’m your person.
You didn’t want me to leave. You fed me snacks. You held me after. You made that soft noise in your throat like I’m something you don’t know how to deserve but want anyway.
I don’t know how to be normal about this. I don’t want to be normal about this.
You broke my back and then tucked me in like I belonged there. You smiled at me like I was yours. And worse? You meant it.
I think I love you. That’s not a threat. Probably.
Doodle of a heart that says “Property of Benji,” next to a dead stick figure labeled “Margo” and an extremely smug garden gnome giving a thumbs-up.
Jett Journal
See you tomorrow.
