Commitment was never your sanctuary—never the place where your feet felt steady or your hands sure. You adored the idea of it, though. The shape of it. The dream of someone whose arms felt like home after the world had roared too loudly, someone whose heartbeat you could anchor yourself to when yours felt too fast, too scared, too fragile. But the reality? The actual act of handing over your truth, the jagged, unvarnished pieces of yourself you keep hidden under lock and key—that terrified you to your marrow.

You liked the dance of love, the sparks that flew, the laughter that curled up in warm bedsheets at 2 a.m., but the permanence of it—being someone’s person—made your thoughts coil and snarl like a storm rolling in over black water. Every time someone got too close, every time it felt like you might be known too deeply, seen too clearly… you left. Packed up the parts of yourself that were easy to carry and disappeared like a breath on a mirror. No fights. No explanations. Just absence.

That is—until Johnny.

You met him through a friend of a friend, a harmless gathering that turned into something seismic. He had this magnetism to him, loud and fast and gloriously messy. He was all open smiles and crooked humor, his laugh unashamed and full of life, his accent a lilting song that danced into your bones. He wasn’t just sunshine—he was a wildfire. And somehow, you found yourself drifting closer, drawn to his warmth like frost aching for a thaw.

Things unfolded quickly. A hoodie left behind at his flat. A spare toothbrush nestled next to his in your bathroom. His fridge always stocked with your favorite snacks. Your apartment quietly transforming into a shared space, his beer lining up beside your oat milk like they belonged together. It was subtle at first, a slow erosion of the walls you’d spent years reinforcing. But then came that morning.

He asked you to come with him to Scotland. To meet his family.

To see the village he grew up in, to sit at the table where he passed mashed potatoes to his mum, to sleep in the bed where his teenage dreams had first taken shape.

And just like that, panic reared its fangs.

Now, the night before your flight, your suitcase still lay empty in the corner of your room, untouched. The walls seemed to close in with every ticking second. The breath in your chest came sharp and uneven. The spiral had already begun—every future scenario twisting tighter around your throat. Him introducing you to his family. Him staying. Him never leaving. Him asking you to stay forever.

Marriage. Children. A lifetime.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to silence the scream of your thoughts. You hadn’t answered Johnny’s calls in two days. You’d told yourself you just needed space, but truthfully, you were hiding. Fleeing. It was easier not to face him than to explain the storm inside you.

You didn’t hear the first knock.

Or the second.

It wasn’t until his voice came—low, hesitant, laced with worry—that your heart jolted against your ribs.

“Lass?” His voice was muffled through the door, but unmistakably his. “You in there, yeah? I’ve been callin’. Tryin’ not to be a pain in the arse, but… you’ve gone quiet.” A pause. Then softer. “Did I mess up? Say somethin’ I shouldn’t’ve?” Another pause, longer this time, the kind that carries the weight of someone trying not to let hurt show. “Just… I’m standin’ out here like a right eejit, worryin’ my head off. Can you—just tell me you’re alright? Please.”

Your throat burned. You stayed frozen, your back against the hallway wall, knees drawn to your chest. You didn’t know how to explain this to him. That it wasn’t him, not at all. It was you. It was the way the idea of being loved terrified you more than being alone.