The Fix-It Department

I spent an alarming amount of time troubleshooting problems that technically belonged to two people.

I had already decided not to text.

That was the decision.

A good decision.

A mature decision.

A decision that lasted approximately seventeen minutes.

By 6:42 p.m., I was back in the chat window reading messages from three weeks ago like they contained classified government information.

Was the full stop colder than usual?

Why did they react with a heart on Tuesday but a thumbs-up on Friday?

Was “haha” emotionally different from “hahaha”?

I would like to formally apologise to every English teacher who ever taught punctuation.

I was using their work irresponsibly.

The strange thing is that I wasn’t actually looking for answers.

Not really.

I was looking for relief.

Relief from the feeling that something had shifted.

Relief from not knowing where I stood.

Relief from that quiet discomfort that appears when a connection stops feeling effortless and starts feeling uncertain.

So I kept searching.

Not for truth.

For reassurance.

Looking back, I think I misunderstood my own attachment.

For years, I thought I struggled to let go because I cared too much.

Because I loved deeply.

Because I was loyal.

Because I was willing to stay.

All of those things were partly true.

But I think something else was happening too.

I wasn’t addicted to people.

I was addicted to repair.

· · ·

The moment distance appeared, I went into problem-solving mode.

Not visibly.

Internally.

A delayed reply became a project.

A change in energy became a puzzle.

A slightly different tone became something I needed to investigate.

I treated emotional distance the way some people treat a leaking tap.

Surely if I paid enough attention to it, I could fix it.

And the more uncertain the connection became, the more determined I became to restore it.

Which sounds romantic until you realise how exhausting it is.

Some people chase connection.

I think I was chasing the moment the connection felt safe again.

The hardest part is that repair feels noble.

It feels caring.

It feels loving.

Nobody proudly announces:

“Today I ignored my own needs and became emotionally preoccupied with somebody else’s inconsistency.”

We call it patience.

We call it understanding.

We call it giving people grace.

And sometimes it is.

But sometimes it is anxiety wearing a very respectable outfit.

The shift happened quietly.

No dramatic ending.

No life-changing conversation.

No perfectly worded boundary.

I just got tired.

Tired of treating every emotional distance like an emergency.

Tired of believing that if I could just find the right explanation, the right insight, the right conversation, everything would return to how it was before.

One day it occurred to me:

Not every distance is asking to be closed.

Some distances are information.

Some distances are choices.

And some distances are simply showing you what the relationship already is.

I still care deeply.

I still notice changes.

I still catch myself wanting to repair things.

But now, when I feel that familiar urge to fix, chase, analyse, or restore, I try to ask a different question.

Not:

“How do I get us back?”

But:

“Why am I working this hard to hold something that is not reaching back?”

That question has saved me more energy than all the answers ever did.

If this resonated, a few claps — maybe even all 50 — would mean a lot and help these words travel a little further.

You can also find me on Instagram @kandidkajal.

Thank you for being here.

Your presence is already a blessing.🦋