When Your Love Is an Open Book — But No One’s Reading

I’ve always loved the kind of closeness where words come freely.

The kind where your thoughts aren’t edited, your rants aren’t rationed, and someone wants to hear you — even when you’re tired, messy, repetitive, or unsure.

That’s what I believed love was:

Coming home after a long day and feeling like your person is the one safe place you don’t have to package yourself for. Not needing to be bright or brief or “just get to the point.” But sitting next to someone who leans in when the world has leaned too hard on you.

That’s what I gave. That’s what I craved.

But what happens when you keep showing up like an open book, and the person across from you stops reading?

I remember us having one of those deeper conversations — the kind you don’t always plan, but fall into. The kind where you ask, “How do you think we’re doing?” and brace for the honesty.

And somewhere in the middle of that vulnerable unraveling, I heard something that stuck in my chest like a quiet bruise.

“Sometimes when you needed to vent after work, I didn’t really want to hear it. I was tired.”

He didn’t say it to be cruel. He was being honest. But it hit me harder than I expected — not because he was tired, but because I hadn’t known.

I had been coming home, emotionally open, thinking we were sharing space — when in reality, he was enduring me. Waiting for me to stop talking.

I had mistaken silence for support. I had mistaken his presence for partnership. I had no idea that me being me was something he wanted less of.

It brought back that familiar ache — the agonizing feeling of being misunderstood. Of feeling like your emotions are “too much” or how your softness can make people uncomfortable.

It hit me in that moment: Maybe he didn’t want to read the whole story. Maybe he only liked the chapters where I was easy to be around.

That’s what hurts about loving someone who can’t meet you in the deeper places. It’s not that they don’t seem to understand — it’s that they don’t want to. And your interior life…your thoughts, your fears, your softness…basically becomes background noise to them. Your desire for closeness gets mistaken for neediness.

There’s a loneliness that happens inside of relationships that no one talks about. The kind where you’re not alone, but you’re not seen. The kind where you’re still writing love out loud, but no one’s reading anymore.

So you start reading it to yourself. And eventually, you realize:

I deserve to be someone’s favorite book. Not a story they skim when it’s convenient.

And that’s why I’m here. Writing. Because if no one else reads me, at least I know I will. And maybe, slowly… gently… the right people will, too.

If you’ve ever felt like your words were met with a sigh instead of a smile, 

if you’ve ever been told your emotions were too heavy,

or your love too loud —I hope you know this:

You are not too much.

You are just waiting to be read by someone who’s ready for the full story.