The void is scary, please don’t leave me here.
I’ve always used writing to express myself in ways I couldn’t manage verbally. On paper, I could control everything — erase, rewrite, refine — until it felt just right. Words on a page didn’t have the power to reject me, misunderstand me, or twist what I was trying to say. But in conversation? I always said too much. I’d pour out every thought, raw and unfiltered, overwhelming the people around me. I wanted to be understood so badly that I didn’t know when to stop explaining.
Deep down, I feared the only way someone could truly love — or even tolerate — me was by eventually leaving me. It was as though being known, being seen fully, came with an expiration date. The more I shared, the closer the end loomed. But instead of speaking less, I spoke more, hoping I could delay the inevitable by proving myself worthy of staying.
I needed clarity, certainty, definition.
“Do you hate me?”
“What are we?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Questions like these became a script I couldn’t stop rehearsing. If I didn’t ask, I’d spiral in silence, obsessing over every interaction, every word exchanged. I needed to know where I stood with people. The absence of labels left me spiralling in a void of uncertainty, and I couldn’t bear the ambiguity.
I started labelling everything — not just the relationships in my life but even mundane things like condiments in the kitchen. It wasn’t just compulsion; it was survival. A label was proof something mattered, that it had a place. Without it, I feared losing things before I could anchor them in place — or worse, losing people before I had the chance to love them properly.
Labels gave me structure, a way to define the chaos in my life. Friend. Partner. Family. Without them, I felt unmoored, drifting in ambiguity, unsure if I was welcome or wanted. Was it really love if I didn’t know what to call it?
But as much as labels brought comfort, they also brought restrictions. They became a measuring stick, a way to box people into roles they might not have been ready for or capable of fulfilling. Relationships, I’ve learned, are rarely that straightforward. They’re messy, undefined, fluid. A friend can feel like family. A partner can feel like a stranger. A stranger can feel like a soulmate.
My worry for something that has no label is like worrying about the future and forgetting about the present. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to define what I meant to others that I’ve often lost sight of what they meant to me in the moment. I’d sit with friends and wonder if we were close enough to be called “best friends” rather than just enjoy their company. I’d analyse every word of a text, searching for clues about what I was to them, rather than appreciate the fact they’d thought of me enough to write at all.
The need for labels often masked my deeper fear — that without one, I wasn’t enough to hold someone’s attention or care. If there was no defined role for me in their life, I worried I was interchangeable, dispensable. But what I didn’t realise at the time was that a label doesn’t guarantee permanence. Just because someone calls you their best friend, their partner, their person doesn’t mean they’ll stay.
Sometimes, the people who mean the most to us slip through our fingers, labels or not.
I’m still learning to live in that grey area, to trust connections without demanding definitions. It’s not easy for someone like me, who craves clarity and fears the unknown. But I’ve realised that life isn’t about the labels we assign; it’s about the meaning we create.
“What are we?” isn’t always the right question. Maybe the better question is, “What do we mean to each other?”
And maybe the answer doesn’t need a label. Sometimes, it’s enough to feel it, to live in the moment, and to let the connection speak for itself.
