I don’t open the message. I saw it. I just didn’t open it.

What looks like ghosting is often something softer, stranger — a nervous system whispering not yet. This is about the messages we don’t open, the spirals we do, and the quiet ache of wanting to respon

Oh yes. Buckle up.

Not because I’m ignoring you. Not because I don’t care. But because something in my chest tightens the second I see it pop up — and not even in a dramatic way, not in a panic attack way, but like a dense little gravity, a pinch behind my ribs that says not yet.

Like: I can’t open that yet. I don’t have the emotional space to receive it. To metabolize it. To know what it asks of me. Even if it’s literally just a hey!! or a “can you review this” or a “you free Friday?” I can’t open it because I don’t know what it wants and some part of me already feels behind. Like the second I read it, I’m already disappointing you.

So I stare at it. I swipe it away. I pretend I didn’t see it. I tell myself “I’ll answer later when I have the capacity” which is hilarious because what is capacity. When does it come. Is there a little green dot that lights up in my soul that means “you may now respond to humans”? I keep waiting for it but it never comes.

And in my head, I did respond. I fully wrote the whole message. Thought it through. Checked my tone. Maybe even imagined the emoji. I did all the work except… actually sending it. But in my body, I logged it as done. So when you follow up like “hey just checking in!” I feel caught. Like I forgot to feed something that’s already starving.

The spiral goes like this:

First, the unread message.

Then, the guilt.

Then, the guilt about the guilt.

Then, the belief that now it’s been too long and replying would be weird and I’m probably the kind of person people eventually give up on.

Then, I become mad at myself for not being normal. For not being chill. For not just texting back like a regular fucking mammal.

And sometimes the message isn’t even a big ask. Sometimes it’s kind. Sweet. Someone telling me I made them feel seen. And somehow that is worse. Because now it’s love I can’t reply to. Support I can’t receive. The thing I say I want most — connection, honesty, people who get it — and I feel… what? Unworthy? Tired? Touched in a way I can’t name?

Sometimes I think my inbox knows me better than I do. It becomes this archive of emotional weather. I can scroll through and remember exactly when I dissociated. When I lost track of time. When I was in freeze mode. Whole eras of my life bookmarked by little blue dots.

And the worst part is: it’s not personal. I ignore everyone. People I adore. People I miss. People I pray for. It’s not about you. It’s about the version of me you might activate when I open the message. I don’t know who I have to become to respond. And sometimes I don’t want to meet her again. Sometimes I just want to sit in silence and be uncontacted. And then I feel gross for that too.

I’ve ghosted people I love. Not because they hurt me. Not because I didn’t care. But because the portal between us felt too heavy to walk through that day. And then the days stacked up. And I got quieter. And now the shame is so loud I can’t hear anything else.

And I know, I know, just text back. Just open the message. Just say the thing.

But I also know what happens when I do. I absorb you. I feel the tone of your voice in my stomach. I picture your face. I start scripting your disappointment. I feel the weight of all the things I haven’t done this week and the 4,000 tabs open in my brain and suddenly it’s not about the message at all, it’s about the version of me who was supposed to be more available than I actually am.

And the sick twist?

I do open it.

Eventually.

At 1:43 a.m. with the brightness turned down low like I’m reading contraband.

And it’s fine. It’s so fine. It’s a “haha no rush” or “just checking in” or a thumbs up.

And I could’ve replied four days ago and spared myself the emotional auto-flagellation spiral.

But instead I let it become this dark little story about how I am unreliable and ungrateful and too sensitive to function.

When really.

I was just tired.

So.

I’m trying to reply.

When I can.

Even if it’s weird timing.

Even if I don’t have a perfect answer.

Even if my reply is “I saw this and I don’t know what to say yet but I’m here.”

Even if I never reply at all but I love you anyway.

Because if I wait for the perfect moment — the clear mind, the clean inbox, the emotionally regulated nervous system — I will never speak again.

And I want to speak.

I do.

I really do.