I Don’t Answer Every Question Because Most Aren’t Real
There are questions women ask me that sound like curiosity.
But they’re not.
They’re checkpoints.
Tests.
Soft little traps disguised as intimacy.
“Are you thinking about me?”
“Do you miss me when I’m not around?”
“Why are you so quiet?”
The words themselves aren’t dangerous.
What’s dangerous is what’s underneath —
the hunger for reassurance, the demand for clarity, the attempt to name something that should be felt, not dissected.
I don’t answer those questions.
Not because I don’t feel.
But because once you name it, it becomes smaller than it is.
Desire loses its voltage when it’s narrated.
Longing collapses into cliché when you package it for someone’s insecurity.
And silence — real silence, not neglect — is the most honest answer I have.
When I don’t say I miss you, it doesn’t mean I don’t.
It means I want you to feel it in the pauses, in the weight of my presence when I’m near,
in the way my eyes hold you longer than they should.
When I don’t say what I’m thinking, it’s not emptiness.
It’s restraint.
Because some truths land like fire, and not everyone wants to be burned.
Most questions aren’t real.
They’re performances in search of applause.
And applause was never my language.
So if you ask me something and I go quiet —
don’t mistake it for indifference.
It’s the only way I can keep the truth from becoming smaller than it deserves to be.