Chapter 23: When I Draw Near And You Draw Away
The great difficulty in a relationship is not only when both are angry, but when one asks for love and the other is afraid to feel.
One wants a hug.
The other wants distance.
One needs reassurance.
The other cannot breathe inside closeness.
Not because love is absent, but because the heart learns to protect itself even from the thing it wants most.
A scene.
They sit on the sofa.
The evening is quiet.
No quarrel. No argument.
Yet something feels far away.
He leans in and lifts a hand toward her, half request, half wish for nearness.
She feels it before he even touches her, and her body gathers in on itself.
No shouting. No anger.
Yet something closes, and a coolness opens a gap.
He feels it at once.
"Do you want us to lie close tonight?"
He asks it like one asking for love.
She answers as gently as she can:
"I am tired. My head is too full."
He gives a polite smile, but inside he sinks and hardens at once.
In his mind it sounds like this:
She does not want me.
Something in me is not enough.
I am alone.
She rises to get a glass of water, partly to escape the awkwardness that has taken hold of her body.
On the way, pressure builds in her too:
Why does this happen again.
Why am I afraid of closeness precisely when I love him, when I want him, when he is good to me.
Two people who love.
Two people who withdraw when afraid.
Each thinking the fault is theirs alone.
A dialogue for the moment when one heart asks and the other fears:
Him:
When you pull away, I feel I do not matter to you.
Her:
When you come close, I am afraid I will not manage to be what you need.
Him:
Then I fight so I will not lose you.
Her:
And I run so I will not disappoint you.
Then comes the line that softens them both:
We are not against each other.
We are against the fear between us.
Written by Enoch Segal. Published by The Celestial Guide.