It’s a strange feeling, not quite jealousy, but something that sits heavy in my stomach. I hear about their long-distance calls, the little plans they make, and there’s this physical reaction, a kind of dull ache that isn’t anger. It’s more like a deep, quiet discomfort. I can see how close they are, and part of me just wants to look away, to not have to witness that particular kind of intimacy. It’s not that I want what they have, not in that way, but seeing it reminds me of a space I don’t occupy, and maybe that’s what makes me feel sick.
What helps, oddly, is remembering my own relationship. There’s a shared understanding there, a camaraderie in knowing we both have someone else who matters. It takes the sharpest edge off the distress, knowing we’re navigating similar waters in our own lives. It creates a connection that somehow exists alongside this other, more complicated one. But I still can’t fully engage with her romantic life. When I try to think about it in detail, especially those old promises we made to each other years ago, my mind just shuts down. It’s too much to hold both things at once—what was said then and what is happening now.
I’ve thought about how it could be different. If things were stable, if we were both truly secure, I think I could share her in a sense. Not in a romantic way, but in a way where her partner and I could even support each other, understanding the unique role we each play in her life. It feels like a sign of growth to even consider that possibility, to move past pure possession. But right now, I’m not that secure. The vulnerability is still too real. I see her struggle with jealousy in her own situation, and I feel a little further along in some ways, more accepting of how messy these bonds can be. Yet that doesn’t erase my own hurt, the insecurity that whispers sometimes when I’m tired or lonely.
So my method, for now, is simple. I avoid dwelling on them as a couple. I don’t seek out details, and I gently steer my thoughts elsewhere when they drift in that direction. It’s not denial, really. It’s just a way to protect a peace that is still fragile. The sickness, that physical unease, it fades when I do that. It leaves room for the connection we do have, the one that exists outside of any other relationship, and that feels like the only solid ground I have to stand on.
