CHANGES

“How do you even do it?” Carol asked.

“Do what?” I replied, astonished.

“Be so smooth yet so rough?” She clarified. I looked at her as if I didn’t understand what she asked. I paused my music, removed my headphones and let them hang around the neck.

"You know," I said, a small smirk playing on my lips, "it's all about perspective, Carol. Smooth or rough?"

Carol leaned back in the booth, her brow furrowed. "You with the cheesy poems and compliments.’ She chuckled, shaking her head. "It's like magic, you know? You can walk up to a complete stranger and have them practically swooning within minutes, then this whole distant act the next. It's like you're Jekyll and Hyde." How do you even do it?"

A slight blush crept up my neck. It was true. Rejection wasn't something I encountered often."Poems?" I feigned surprise, though a flicker of guilt pricked at my conscience. "Oh, those were just for..." I trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"Just for?" she prompted, her eyes narrowed in amusement.

"Look," I sighed, leaning forward with a practiced charm. "Some girls appreciate a little...art, you know? Poetry, compliments, making them feel special." I shrugged, a casualness I didn't quite feel. "It's a game, really. Just a vibe, making them feel we've known each other forever."

"Poetry in motion, huh?" Carol mirrored my smirk. "So you just choose when to activate flirt mode?"

I shrugged, a playful glint in my eyes. "There's a certain spark, a connection you feel right away. Like we've already got inside jokes or some unfinished business from a past life." I chuckled, then my voice softened. "But sometimes, you just gotta keep it casual, you know? Talk about the weather, the professor's droning lecture, whatever gets the job done."

Carol leaned closer, her eyes searching mine. "So it's a conscious choice? Smooth operator with some girls, Mr. Casual with others?"

I hesitated, the weight of my actions settling in. "Something like that," I mumbled. "There's a thrill in the unknown, you know? Talking to a stranger, they don't have a box for you to fit in. You can be whoever you want, say whatever you want."

A mischievous grin spread across my face. "Maybe I like a little chaos. Song lyrics as pick-up lines, elaborate pranks that leave them bewildered...it's all part of the game."

Carol's lips pursed in thought. "But then what about the silence that comes afterwards?"

"Well," I started, feigning nonchalance, "like I said, it's all about vibes.

Carol raised an eyebrow. "Just vibes, huh? And then what happens to the vibe?"

I hesitated, the lightness in my voice fading. "It runs its course, I guess. There's only so much you can keep up, you know?"

"So you just...disappear?" she asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

"Something like that," I mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

The truth was far less smooth. The initial attention, the excitement of a new connection, that's what fueled me. But the moment things started to feel real, the moment vulnerability threatened to crack through the carefully constructed facade, I bolted. Every time.

"It seems exhausting," Carol remarked, a touch of sadness in her tone. "Building someone up just to tear it down."

I looked down, tracing a pattern on the table. "Yeah, something like that. Because the truth is, Carol," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper, "when I do let someone in, I let them all the way in. And that's...terrifying."

The vulnerability in my voice hung heavy in the air. It was the first time I'd admitted this fear to anyone. Perhaps the act of creating a connection with Carol, even a casual one, had chipped away at the walls I'd built around myself.

A long silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the clinking of glasses from a nearby table. Carol's gaze held a mix of understanding and something deeper, a flicker of empathy that made my insides twist.

"But why?" she finally asked, her voice gentle. "If letting people in is so scary, why even bother with the whole act? Why build them up just to walk away?"

I shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her question pressing down on me. "It's...complicated," I mumbled, resorting to my usual escape tactic of deflecting.

"Try me," she persisted, a quiet strength in her voice.

Taking a deep breath, I met her gaze. "Maybe it's because the thrill of the chase fades," I confessed, finally admitting a part of the truth. "The initial spark, the mystery, it's intoxicating. But then..." I hesitated, searching for the right words.

"Then what?" she prompted, her voice laced with a hint of sadness.

"Then the real stuff starts," I sighed. "The getting to know each other, the sharing of secrets, the vulnerability. It's terrifying. What if they see who I really am and decide they don't like me anymore?"

Carol's lips softened into a knowing smile. "So you push them away before they have a chance to reject you?"

"Maybe," I mumbled.

"But wouldn't it be worse to live a life of surface connections, never letting anyone truly know you?" she asked, her voice laced with a quiet challenge.

"Making connections is easy, Carol.’ I sighed, changing the conversation. ‘It's the keeping up with them that's exhausting. The constant texts, the emotional investment, the vulnerability. It's easier to stay silent, you know? Reply when they text, keep things light, but never let them get too close."

A rueful smile played on my lips. "The truth is," I confessed, a hint of self-deprecation in my voice, "I guess I'm a little addictive. The sporadic attention, the flirty banter, it keeps them wanting more. But the moment they get too invested, the moment they expect more, that's when I disappear."

Carol raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. "So you play the game, keep them hooked, but never give them the full you?"

I shrugged, a helpless feeling washing over me. For the first time, the thrill of the chase seemed hollow, a cheap substitute for genuine connection. The fear of intimacy, however real, felt like a prison of my own making. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to take a chance, to let someone in and see what happened.

"Look," I finally admitted, meeting her gaze, "I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's a fear of being disappointed, or disappointing them. Maybe it's a way to protect myself from getting hurt."

Carol leaned back, a thoughtful frown etching itself on her forehead. "But isn't that the risk you take with any connection?" she asked. "Isn't it better to risk getting hurt than to live a life of superficial interactions?"

Her words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation. The familiar urge to deflect, to disappear, rose within me, but for the first time, it felt like a tired routine rather than a comforting escape.

Looking at Carol, her gaze open and honest, I realized something. Maybe building genuine connections wasn't a game, but a leap of faith. Maybe the fear of intimacy was a story I could rewrite, one conversation, one connection at a time.

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the words wouldn't come. The truth was, Carol was right. My routine was a cycle of emptiness, a hollow dance that left me no closer to genuine connection. But admitting that, facing the reason behind my fear of intimacy, well, that was a story I wasn't ready to tell. Not yet.