I met her on Facebook.
(It’s becoming a pattern—I know.)
She showed up in a comment thread. One of those dark little zingers that hits harder than it should. I don’t remember the post, but I remember the feeling—that flash of, “Oh. She gets it.” Bleak humor. Dry. The kind that cuts right to the bone. I added her.
Back then, I was trying to climb out of my own wreckage. Freshly divorced. Three years into a self-inflicted exile. I’d been punishing myself—emotionally, socially, spiritually—for failing at marriage. For everything I broke along the way.
Facebook was the closest thing I had to a reentry plan. I started adding people around the periphery of scenes I never really belonged to. People I’d seen at shows or knew by name. People I’d never gotten close to.
I’d been to the Radio Room before, but I wasn’t part of that world.
Not yet.
Still, it felt like a door.
Or at least a window I might crack open.
She was one of them.
Not someone I knew—just someone whose words made me stop scrolling.
We started bonding in comment sections. Music, mostly. And misery.
You can tell a lot about someone by how they talk about pain. Some people romanticize it. Some people hide it. But her? She wore hers like armor. Sardonic, spiked, self-aware. A dark kind of honesty that made me feel less alone.
As time passed, I started to learn more. Her situation. Her sadness. The bad shit that had happened to her—and the bad shit still happening. And in all that wreckage, I started to see something else, too: a light. Dim, but real. Maybe because it mirrored my own.
I don’t want to get stuck “in the friend zone” again—because it doesn’t really exist.
People like who they like. You can’t change that.
What I feel now is quiet. Slow. But maybe more dangerous in its own way.
It’s not love. It’s curiosity. It’s possibility.
It’s seeing something beautiful and broken and wondering what it might look like if either of us healed just enough to reach for more.
But I’m not scheming.
Not playing some long game.
Not pretending to be a friend while secretly waiting in line.
I care about her. That’s real.
But I’m trying to care cleanly.
Trying to show up without slipping.
Because I’ve been down that road before—and it only ever leads back to myself, hollowed out.
I’ve learned to be cautious with this kind of connection. It’s easy to mistake intensity for intimacy—or pain for compatibility. That caution doesn’t keep me distant; it helps me stay honest. It reminds me to show up without pretending I’m owed something just because I care.
There was someone once—someone I cared for deeply, who never felt the same. I was her safe place. Her confidant. Her emotional anchor. Everything but the person she chose. That taught me how lonely it can be to be trusted but not wanted.
Another one did choose me—for a while. But it was chaos. Hurt masked as passion. Love weaponized. That one left scars I still trace when things get quiet.
And then there was the one I never stopped hoping for. The first person who made me feel chosen. And then… unchosen. A memory that stuck longer than it should have, because I couldn’t let go of what it almost was.
So now, when I feel something stir again—when I sense the possibility of closeness—I hold back.
Not because I’m cold.
But because I remember.
At some point—I don’t even remember when—I sent her a voice message.
I told her the truth.
That I was interested, yes.
That I saw something in her—something worth leaning toward.
But I wasn’t playing a long game.
Wasn’t hoping to wear her down.
Wasn’t polishing my “nice guy” badge and waiting to be chosen.
I told her I was a safe space. And I meant it.
Not as a tactic. Not as a move.
Just… a simple offering.
A quiet place in a loud world.
A steadiness, in case she ever needed one.
She didn’t really respond to that part.
And honestly, I didn’t expect her to.
Sometimes the most generous thing you can do with honesty is let it float—untethered to expectation.
I said what I needed to say—for her, maybe, but mostly for me.
So I wouldn’t have to lie.
So I wouldn’t have to sit in silence wondering if I’d betrayed myself by pretending not to care.
That’s the hardest part of these situations:
When you finally learn how to be honest without demanding a damn thing in return.
She struggles with money, like me.
It’s health, mostly. Mental health too. Same story, different angles.
But in her case—it’s invisible.
You look at her and see someone who looks okay. Stunning, even. Not the type people rush to help. Not the type people believe when she says she’s not okay.
And I think about that a lot.
How that must make things harder for her.
Me? You can look at my fat ass and know I’ve got problems.
I walk into a room and I’m already labeled—maybe not accurately, but at least noticed.
There’s a weird kind of relief in that.
No one expects much.
No one’s shocked when I say I’m struggling.
I’m allowed to fall apart a little.
But her? She has to prove it.
Just to be seen. Just to be believed. Just to get help.
She has to bleed out emotionally before people take her pain seriously.
And I think that’s part of why I want to be there.
Not to fix anything. Not to rescue.
Just… to believe her, without her having to audition for it.
Last night, I messaged her.
It was her birthday. She hadn’t posted anything. No selfies. No “thanks for the wishes.” No celebration.
Just silence.
And I know that silence.
I wear it too, sometimes. So I reached out.
She answered. Not with a performance. Not with a “thanks for checking in.” But with the kind of honesty most people keep locked away.
She was feeling alone. Heavy. Not okay.
And we talked. About life. About hell.
About how maybe we’re already in it.
About how some of us just try to survive quietly—while the worst people seem to thrive, loud and unchecked.
She said something about wishing she could just be an asshole, but knowing she couldn’t.
And I felt that.
The curse of conscience. Of softness.
Of always trying to do the right thing—and never getting the right things in return.
We didn’t flirt.
We didn’t “have a moment.”
We just… understood each other.
In that suspended, midnight kind of way.
It felt good to be that person for someone. To be trusted. To be present.
To be what I said I wanted to be: a safe space. Nothing more.
Then I woke up to a different kind of silence.
A heaviness.
A kind of ache that made everything feel more fragile than usual.
I texted her this morning. Told her I had major drama today—because I do. But I didn’t want to put more weight on her. Even though I do have some serious shit going on. Not good shit.
I didn’t want to shift the weight.
Because she’s already carrying enough.
And because that’s the role I play, isn’t it?
The one who listens.
The one who absorbs.
The one who doesn’t break—even when I’m already breaking.
As I sit here now, I know she’s probably going to wake up feeling rough.
Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
Birthdays can do that to people like us.
They come with this pressure to feel celebrated—when you barely feel functional.
But more than anything, I just hope she’s not regretting anything from last night.
She kept apologizing.
For being sad. For oversharing. For existing in a way that wasn’t bright or easy.
And I kept trying to tell her—it’s okay.
That I understood.
That she didn’t have to perform for me.
Didn’t have to apologize for the way her mind works or the way her body feels.
I don’t want her waking up worried.
Not about me. Not about what was said. Not about what might’ve been meant.
She’s already carrying enough.
I just hope today is easier for her.
I hope the world is quieter. Softer. Lighter.
I hope she feels less alone—even if she is alone.
And if she thinks about me at all, I hope it’s only this:
Someone cared. Without needing anything back.
Things will be okay. Eventually.
Not quickly.
Not cleanly.
And not in any of the ways we expect.
If I get nothing out of this other than the feeling of helping someone—that’s enough.
Because I also appreciate this:
You never know how life will go.
And I love that there’s still possibility out there—even if it’s complicated. Even if it may not come in the form I most would like.
I’ve got more confidence today that there may be someone out there for me one day.
Probably not today.
Probably not tomorrow.
And that’s okay, too.
I still have work to do—on myself, in myself—before I can truly function long-term with someone else.
But that’s what I want:
Not just connection, but commitment.
A steady kind of love.
Built on knowing and choosing each other—again and again.
Forever.
Or until.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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