Posts in category: Love and Relationships

Eleanor didn’t cry when her mother died. She wanted to. She even practiced in the mirror before the funeral, testing different versions of grief—brow furrowed, hand to heart, trembling lip. Nothing came. Just that hollow ache, like wind blowing through a house with all the furniture removed.

She was 34 when it happened. Not young, not old—just that awkward, unglamorous middle that nobody writes love songs about. Her apartment was spotless, her job as a legal assistant paid well, and she had a 5-year plan she’d mapped out in a bullet journal with little color-coded tabs.

But she was lonely. The kind of loneliness that doesn’t scream—it just hums in the background, like a refrigerator you forget is there until the power goes out.

Her friends called her “put together.” That made her laugh.

They didn’t see how she curled up on the floor sometimes, back against the couch, wine glass on the carpet, scrolling through dating apps she’d never message anyone on. They didn’t know about the drawer of letters she wrote but never sent—to old boyfriends, to a dad who left, to a version of herself that didn’t need so much from people.

The truth was, Eleanor needed affection the way some people needed caffeine. Her heart felt like a sponge left too long in the sun—stiff and brittle, but still hopeful someone might soak it again.

That’s when she met Jamie.

It started on a Wednesday, which felt unfair. Nothing good ever happened on a Wednesday. But there he was, in the elevator of her building, holding a plant. A big, floppy pothos in a clay pot with a chipped edge. His coat was soaked from the rain and his curls were trying to escape from a beanie that had seen better days.

“You’re on six, right?” he said, offering a tired smile.

She blinked. “Yeah. You live here?”

“Just moved in. Eight. This guy’s gonna be my roommate.” He nodded at the plant.

She smiled—genuinely, without trying. “Hope he doesn’t snore.”

He chuckled, the kind of laugh that made you feel like maybe you’d said something better than you thought.

“Jamie,” he said, offering his hand.

“Eleanor.”

And just like that, something cracked open.

The thing about Jamie was that he noticed things.

He noticed when she changed her nail color, and when she looked tired after work, and how she always paused a second longer at the sound of dogs barking outside.

He was an illustrator, working from home, which Eleanor found both terrifying and fascinating. How did someone just… draw for a living? He said he liked sketching people who didn’t know they were being seen. That’s where the real stuff was, he said. In the way a person held a coffee cup, or tapped their foot when anxious, or smiled like it might be the last one for a while.

Over coffee one morning, he told her, “You wear your heart like it’s trying not to be noticed.”

She stared at him. “What does that even mean?”

Jamie shrugged. “It means you’re gentle. But scared of it.”

Nobody had ever said that to her before. She thought about it for days.

They started spending time together in that casual-not-casual way. Late night grocery runs. Shared playlists. A movie on his couch that turned into three, and her realizing she was tracing the seam of the pillow just to keep from leaning against him.

He never made a move. Not in the obvious, rom-com kind of way. No sudden kisses in the rain. No long stares over candlelight. He just… showed up. He texted to make sure she got home safe. He left her little doodles on Post-Its—funny little animals doing human things. A fox in a business suit. A snail with a coffee addiction.

And slowly, Eleanor started to feel things again. Not all at once. Love didn’t sweep in like a wave. It trickled, quietly, into the cracks of her—warming up the parts that had gone cold.

One night, after too much wine and too many memories, she sat on his kitchen floor and whispered, “I just want someone who chooses me. Without being asked.”

Jamie knelt beside her and didn’t say anything. He just wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulled her in, and rested his chin on her head.

It was the softest thing she’d ever felt.

But things aren’t perfect, even when they feel like they could be.

One afternoon, her ex called. The one who’d left her with the most damage. The one who told her she was “too much” when she cried during sad commercials, who laughed when she asked to hold hands in public, who called her needy and said it like a diagnosis.

“I was wrong,” he said on the phone. “I didn’t know how to love you then.”

Eleanor felt the words settle in her chest like stones. Because she’d waited years to hear them. And now that they were here, all she wanted to do was run.

Jamie found her sitting on her balcony later, bundled in a blanket, eyes red.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “He apologized.”

Jamie didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask who. He just sat beside her.

“I used to think love meant fixing people,” she whispered. “Or proving I was worth staying for.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it might just mean being seen. Without having to perform.”

Jamie turned to her. “You don’t have to perform for me.”

It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t fireworks. But her throat tightened like it was.

A few weeks later, they kissed for the first time.

They were walking home from a late-night diner, talking about nothing—sandwiches, weird childhood fears, that one time Jamie got locked in a library overnight.

She stopped suddenly, right in the middle of the sidewalk, and said, “I like you. Like, like like you.”

Jamie looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Eleanor…”

Her stomach dropped.

But then he stepped closer, gently, like approaching a deer in the woods.

“You don’t have to say it perfectly,” he said. “I already know.”

And he kissed her.

It was warm. Safe. No music swelled. No strangers clapped. But when they pulled away, she felt like someone had finally found her in the fog.

The thing is, love didn’t fix her.

She still had days where the silence in her apartment felt louder than anything. She still doubted herself. Still worried she was too much, or not enough.

But Jamie loved her anyway.

He kissed her forehead when she overthought. He held her hand under the table at awkward family dinners. He listened—really listened—when she talked about her fears. And she, in return, learned to open. To soften. To love without bracing for loss.

One night, curled up in bed, she whispered, “I think I’m learning how to need without apologizing for it.”

Jamie smiled against her shoulder. “Good. Because I need you too.”

Years later, they still laughed about that first elevator ride.

“Bet you didn’t expect the love of your life to look like a drowned rat with a plant,” he teased.

She grinned. “I just needed someone who saw me.”

“And I saw you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Still do. Every day.”

Eleanor leaned into him, heart full, no longer brittle.

Because love had come—not as a rescue, but as a quiet companion. A hand to hold. A home to rest in.

And for the first time in her life, that was enough.