enjoy my company before i get tired of you

this essay is on the bittersweet nature of beginnings. the way people meet, eyes catching across rooms or conversations striking up with a casual comment, the simplest act setting off a chain reaction that neither party can predict. those first moments are electric, full of possibility, full of hope. i’m always ready to lean in, to discover the bits and pieces of someone new, to map out their habits and stories like i’m piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. i’ll laugh at their jokes, even when they’re not that funny, and i’ll listen with real interest, absorbing the details, the anecdotes, the quirks. it’s not an act; i genuinely care.

but here’s the catch: there’s a timer, an invisible clock counting down that even i can’t see. because eventually, always too soon, there’s a moment when the excitement fizzles out. the stories aren’t as new, the laughter isn’t as fresh, and i start to feel that familiar weariness sink in. i try to fight it, to keep the momentum going, but it’s as if a switch flips inside me, and suddenly, being around them feels like holding my breath.

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it’s not that i wish for this to happen—it’s just the way i’m wired. for a while, i used to think it was just a phase, that maybe i was broken, incapable of long-term connections. friends and family would say, “you just need to find the right people.” but i’ve met good people, amazing people, even. and it happens all the same. it’s not about them; it’s about me.

see, when you’re like this, every relationship feels like a performance. not a dishonest one, but more like a high-energy act where i’m trying to be fully present, fully engaged. and i am, at first. there’s no pretending when i lean in and share bits of myself, when i hang on every word, when i’m the first to suggest an impromptu adventure. but after a while, the script starts feeling rehearsed. i repeat the same stories, answer the same questions, laugh at the same parts, and slowly, the edges of the act begin to fray. my energy wanes, and i find myself withdrawing, wanting more and more time alone, where i don’t have to perform at all.

the worst part is the guilt. because it’s not fair, is it? to be the person who comes on strong, who makes others feel seen and heard, only to recede like the tide when they’ve settled into the idea of you being there. and i hate being that person—the one who makes others feel they’ve done something wrong when the truth is i’m just tired. tired of talking, tired of trying, tired of being in the space where connection turns into expectation.

sometimes, i worry that one day i’ll run out of people to connect with, that i’ll exhaust my chances at those new beginnings because i always reach that point where i get tired or comfortable and the effort fades. it’s a haunting thought—that maybe, after a certain number of starts, people will catch on, recognize the pattern, and decide that investing in me isn’t worth the inevitable withdrawal. i fear the day when i look around and there’s no one left who’s willing to step into the story with me, when i’ve worn down every possibility until all that’s left is the quiet echo of connections i once had but couldn’t keep. the idea of being alone, not out of choice but because i’ve depleted the well of people who’ll take that chance, is a loneliness that settles deeper than anything i’ve felt before.

maybe that’s why i value the moments when it’s all still fresh. when i can give everything without hesitation. the early conversations that stretch into the night, the laughter that comes easily, the way i show up at their door unannounced because i simply wanted to share the day with them. those are the moments that feel the most honest. and maybe i wish i could freeze time there, to hold onto the part of me that’s fully present, fully open, before the inevitable weariness begins to creep in.

over the years, i’ve tried to change, to stretch the time before the fatigue sets in. i’ve learned to be more honest, to tell people that i have limits, that sometimes i need space to breathe, to recover from the overwhelming rush of connection. and some people understand. they give me that space without taking offense, without assuming that my silence is a reflection of how i feel about them. those people are rare, though, and sometimes it’s easier to just drift away, to fade out before they see that side of me.

it makes me think about the duality of longing. how i crave connection as much as i fear it, how i want people close but not too close, how i invite others into my world knowing full well that one day i’ll want them out. it’s a strange way to be, feeling both the rush of affection and the weight of impending distance. and maybe, somewhere deep down, i know that the only way to make it bearable is to cherish those moments when i’m fully present, to hope they can, too.

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“enjoy my company,” i want to tell them. “enjoy it while i’m still the version of me that can give it freely. before i get tired, before the words start feeling heavy and the laughter feels rehearsed. because when i do pull away, it won’t be because of you. it’ll be because i’ve run out of whatever it is that fuels me, and i need time to rebuild.”

and if they can accept that, we’ll find a rhythm where they stay, and i don’t feel so lost in the quiet that follows the high. where i learn that some connections don’t need the intensity of a first chapter but can find their comfort in the in-between. and where i can admit that, in some rare cases, i don’t get tired at all.