I’m a socially awkward human being. That’s a fact.
I hate being socially awkward, but it’s not like I can do anything about it. That’s just what I’m made of. It’s like I’m awkwardness made flesh. Even though I want to break free from my introvert nature sometimes, how can I? I can’t shed a part of me just because I don’t want it. It doesn’t work that way.
But you, whenever we talk, you amplify all that awkwardness inside me. You make it ten times worse. Which makes talking to you so fucking hard. It gets me tongue-tied. Or worse, it makes me spontaneously spout stupid things out of my mouth. And of course, that short not-much-of-a-conversation that barely lasted a minute will haunt me for days. Or weeks, depending on how badly it went. That very brief conversation would replay on my mind a thousand times over with me obsessing about the things I should have said. And me regretting the things I did say.
But you see, even though talking to you drives me crazy, I still want us to have even the briefest and the most awkward of conversations. Yes, it will mess me up for days on end, but I can handle it. I will handle it. At least if you talk to me, I’ll get the reassurance that you do know I exist in the same dimension as you do. And I think that’s good enough for me.