💬 Typing... But Never Sent

Lucian and me

I was just casually scrolling through Instagram on a rainy Thursday afternoon, half-listening to our recorded psych lecture, when I saw him.

His name was Lucian.
Mutuals: 5.
Bio: “just surviving | psych major @ ***”
His smile? Dangerous. The kind that felt like it could burn through your denial.

I tapped follow without thinking.

I didn’t expect him to follow back. But he did—like, five minutes later.

Then he started reacting to my stories.
Heart eyes on my latte art.
🔥 on my book recs.
“you drew this??” on my messy digital sketch of a boy with moon eyes.

It was nothing, really. Just innocent reactions. But for someone like me—who had spent so much time hiding, second-guessing, hating his reflection—it meant everything.

—

We were both psych majors. Same department. Different year.

I was the quiet, artsy one. The overthinker who laughed a little too late in conversations.
He was the extroverted type—smart, charismatic, the kind of guy who could talk about attachment theory and then post thirst traps in the same 24 hours.

I was deep in a weird identity fog when we started talking.
I didn’t hate myself, but I didn’t love myself either.
I knew I was queer. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was this question I couldn’t shake:

“Do I even deserve love if I can’t love myself yet?”

—

We started chatting at night. Mostly about classes. Sometimes about stupid dreams. Occasionally about how the world felt a little too heavy.

He was kind. Gentle in a way that caught me off guard.

One night, he said:
“You ever feel like you’re constantly trying to be someone you're not, just to be liked?”

I didn’t reply immediately.

But I thought, “Yes. Every day.”

That night, I wrote a journal entry that just said:

"I think I like him.
And I think that’s the problem."

—

Things weren’t official. We weren’t dating. There were no clear labels.
Just endless late-night messages. Voice notes. Emojis that said more than words ever could.

But the longer it went on, the heavier it felt on my chest.

He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t leading me on.
But it wasn’t certain either.
There was always this space between us that I couldn't cross—not yet.
And the more I tried to shrink myself to fit what I thought he wanted, the more I lost parts of me I was just beginning to understand.

So one night, I ended it. Not dramatically. Just honestly.

I told him,

“I need to take a step back. It’s not you. It’s just... I need to figure myself out. And right now, this... whatever this is... it’s not helping me breathe.”

He replied after 10 minutes.

“Okay. I understand. I’ll be here, still rooting for you. Take care of your mind first.”

I cried.

Not because it was over.
But because for the first time, I chose me.

—

Now, I’m focusing on my stories again. Writing about boys like me who are still figuring things out.
I go on long walks. I take selfies even if I don’t post them. I try to compliment my reflection, even if it feels fake.

Lucian still views my stories sometimes.
And sometimes I wonder—what if?

But I don’t message him anymore.
Not because I don’t care.
But because I’m learning that some loves arrive too early, and that’s okay.

Right now, I’m loving myself—slowly, imperfectly, but truly.

And maybe one day, when I’m ready, I’ll fall in love again.

But this time, with someone who loves the real me.

Starting with me.

—

✨ Notes from the Author:

This one’s for the queer kids who are still finding their voice, who feel too much and speak too little. You are not hard to love. You are learning, and that’s brave.

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Would you like a continuation someday—where they reconnect, maybe as more healed versions of themselves? Or a spin-off from Lucian’s POV? 🥲🌈