They want the story.
They want to know what it feels like, what it
means, what you have that they don’t.
They want to touch the thing they don’t understand.
They want to say they’ve been there.
Sometimes they want to collect you like a souvenir.
But access is not intimacy.
Access is not care.
It is only a door you agreed to open.
And once they’re inside, you find out very quickly whether they came to meet you or simply to look around.
Some people don’t know what to do with what they find.
They get uncomfortable.
They get quiet.
They leave.
I have let people in.
I have handed them my history like a map.
I have shown them rooms I don’t show everyone.
And I have watched them walk through like tourists.
Looking.
Asking questions.
Taking nothing with them.
Leaving nothing behind.
Just passing through.
Now I am careful.
I ask myself:
Do they want to know me, or do they want to say they knew me?
Do they want to hold what I give them, or do they just want to hold the door open and look?
I stopped letting curiosity pass for care.
Because I know the difference now.
Not everyone who wants access deserves intimacy.
And opening the door does not mean I have to let them stay.
