Episode 3: The Unending Cycle 

Hi, today was fun, but it made me realize I'm not emotionally available to be with someone that way. If you want to keep talking as friends, I'm okay with that. If not, I understand that too.

She stared at the message she had just typed, her finger hovering over the send icon. Her thumb lingered, hesitating. 

Not again, she thought, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She reread the message to check for typos as if the wording was the real issue.

How does she keep letting this happen? Every single time, she'd meet someone, feel a spark, invest in them for a few days—and then, like clockwork, she'd lose interest. Three days, tops. It was a pattern. A cycle she couldn't break.

"What's wrong with me?" she muttered, momentarily tossing her phone onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. Was she the problem? Was she so emotionally screwed up that she had to ruin everything? Her thoughts spiralled momentarily, the endless barrage of self-doubt creeping in like always.

But no, she wasn't the problem. Not really. She was doing the right thing. At least, that's what she told herself. She could've strung them along, kept the conversation going, played pretend for a few more weeks—but for what? She knew it wouldn't amount to anything. Staying longer when you knew the ending was inevitable seemed... cruel. Pointless.

Delusional.

She shook her head. She wasn't delusional. Not anymore, at least. She knew herself well enough by now. Knew that she could be invested for precisely 72 hours before her emotional energy dried up and the connection fizzled out. She could feel the cycle repeating itself over and over again. And yet, she kept falling into it.

"Fuuuuck," she groaned, louder this time, pressing send before she could talk herself out of it.

The message disappeared, and with it, any remaining thread of interest she had left. It was over. It always was. She tossed her phone onto the bed and immediately turned away, unaware of the inevitable response. It didn't matter anyway. She'd already made up her mind.

She rubbed her temples, trying to shake the feeling of guilt that clung to her chest. It was the same every time. The excitement, the rush of getting to know someone new, followed by the cold, detached realization that she didn't want what they wanted. Not really. Not in the way they expected.

It wasn't that she was incapable of affection. She cared in her own way. She could enjoy someone's company, laugh with them, connect with them—but the moment things edged toward anything more profound, anything resembling what they called "love," she recoiled. It was like clockwork. An unending cycle of fleeting excitement, followed by disinterest.

She wasn't cut out for this.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Maybe it was better to just be alone. To stop trying, stop entertaining the idea of something that wasn't her. Every time she tried, she ended up hurting someone—or worse, feeling nothing at all.

The phone buzzed. She didn't have to look at it to know it was him.

But she wasn't ready to deal with it. Not now.

Instead, she stared out the window, letting her mind wander, wondering if there would ever be a time when she didn't feel like this. When she wouldn't have to send that message. When she wouldn't have to end something before it even began.

But deep down, she already knew the answer.

She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her chin resting on them as her mind drifted. The message was sent, and she felt the familiar wave of relief washing over her. It wasn't the weight of disappointment she feared —it was the expectation of forever. She was allergic to it. The thought of being tied to someone for an endless time felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in, even if no one had ever asked her for forever.

Still, she loved love. She loved the way it made her feel in those first few days—when everything was electric, when her heart raced just a little faster at the sight of a text, when she would stay up late talking to someone, unravelling pieces of each other, one by one. She craved those moments, that passion, the heady rush of something new.

But when the rush faded, when the shine wore off, she always felt it creeping in—the expectation. The assumption was that what they had started would keep building into something bigger, something longer. And that was the part she couldn't stomach. The weight of "forever" wasn't something she wanted to carry.

She stretched her legs out before her, leaning back against the pillows. Love wasn't meant to last forever. At least, not for her. The idea of everlasting love felt like a trap, like a fairy tale that never seemed natural enough to believe in. Sure, she could love and love hard, but she didn't want her life tangled in someone else's forever. The problem was everyone else did.

And that's where the contradiction came in. She wanted love, but not in the way they wanted it. She wanted the warmth, the closeness, the fleeting beauty of connection—but she wanted it on her terms. The minute the talk shifted to "long-term" or "commitment," she could feel herself pulling back, the spark in her chest flickering out.

It wasn't that she was incapable of love. She just didn't believe love was supposed to be eternal. It was meant to be felt, lived, and eventually let go. And yet, here she was, constantly brushing up against people who saw love as unbreakable, like a vow that couldn't be taken back.

Maybe that's why it never works out, she thought, glancing over at her phone. Maybe I'm chasing something I don't even want.

The phone screen flashed again. Another buzz. Probably him, still typing out his response. She didn't need to see it to know how it would go. She'd had enough of these conversations to know the script by heart. They'd be confused at first, maybe even hurt, wondering why she'd pull away when things were going so well. Then they'd try to convince her to stay a little longer—as if that would change how she felt. But it never did.

"Everyone wants forever," she murmured, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "But not me."

She couldn't help but wonder why. Why was she wired this way? To love so intensely in the beginning but then feel herself grow distant the moment things got serious. There were times she wished she could be different. It would make things easier and less messy. But that wasn't who she was.

She glanced back at her phone, tempted to pick it up. But no. Not yet. She wasn't ready for the conversation that would follow. The inevitable questions she didn't have answers to.

She had always known she wasn't built for long-term. Growing up, she watched people tie themselves to each other and watched people she knew jump from relationship to relationship, each time with the hope that this would be the one. She never understood that obsession with finding the one. Why did there have to be just one? Why did love have to be tied down, confined to a single person, stretched out over a lifetime?

No, she wasn't searching for forever. She was searching for moments. Brief, intense, beautiful moments. The kind of love that made her feel alive without the heavy burden of permanence.

It wasn't that she was broken, even though people tried to make her feel that way sometimes. She just didn't want to fit into the mold.

The phone buzzed again, and this time, she grabbed it, not to read his response but to scroll through her messages with him. She let her thumb hover over his name. There it was again—the cycle. She had been excited at first, laughing at his jokes, staying up late to hear about his life, letting herself get pulled into his energy. And now, just a few days in, the familiar numbness was creeping in, dulling the connection she once thought might be special.

She could feel it slipping away, her interest, her excitement. What was once fire was now just embers, barely flickering. And instead of feeding the flame, she was ready to put it out.

It wasn't fair; she knew that. To him. To anyone. But what was she supposed to do? Pretend to want something she didn't? Force herself to stay when she already knew the ending?

No. She couldn't do that. It would be worse than walking away now.

But still…

She wanted love. She loved love. She loved the thrill of it; it made her feel like the world was full of possibilities. She loved the connection, the closeness, the vulnerability that came with opening herself up to someone. She just didn't love what came after. The expectations. The weight. The suffocating idea that this person was supposed to be hers forever.

Her phone buzzed once more in her hand. She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and unlocked it.