Calm feels like a betrayal.
That’s the thought that keeps circling my head as I sit on the edge of my bed, hands folded in my lap, staring at nothing in particular. The room is quiet—too quiet. No buzzing phone. No arguments echoing from memory. No urgent emails demanding attention. Just stillness.
And instead of relief, I feel guilty.
I imagine a life that doesn’t require constant bracing. One where mornings don’t begin with scanning my phone for damage control, where evenings don’t end with my chest tight from anticipating the next emotional landmine. I imagine a version of myself who isn’t always apologizing—for succeeding, for needing space, for wanting more.
The image is soft. Warm. Dangerous.
I hate myself for wanting it.
The fantasy creeps in during the most ordinary moments. When I’m walking across campus and the air feels crisp instead of oppressive. When I sit in the library and the quiet feels productive rather than lonely. When I listen to someone speak calmly, thoughtfully, without raising their voice or turning vulnerability into a weapon.
Calm doesn’t shout. It doesn’t demand. It doesn’t collapse if I don’t hold it together.
And that scares me.
Because chaos, at least, is familiar.
I try to study, but my thoughts drift. I catch myself rereading the same sentence over and over, the words blurring together until they lose meaning. My mind wanders to things I don’t want to think about—possibilities I refuse to name. I press my lips together and shake my head, as if that might physically dislodge the thoughts.
This isn’t fair to Chase, I tell myself.
I shouldn’t be thinking like this while I’m still with him. I shouldn’t be imagining a different life when the one I chose hasn’t technically ended yet. The guilt presses heavy against my ribs, a reminder of loyalty, of commitment, of all the things I was taught love is supposed to look like.
Sacrifice. Endurance. Staying.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what love is supposed to feel like.
I grab my jacket and head out, needing air, movement, something to shake the restlessness out of my body. Ellen is sitting on the steps near the arts building when I spot her, her knees drawn up, headphones resting loosely around her neck.
I don’t ask if I can sit. I just do.
She glances at me, then back at the trees lining the path. “You look like you’re arguing with yourself again.”
“I always am,” I say.
She hums. “Fair.”
We sit in silence for a while, the kind that doesn’t feel like avoidance. Ellen has a way of making quiet feel intentional instead of awkward. It’s one of the things I’ve grown to rely on more than I want to admit.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say finally.
“That’s never a short sentence,” she replies.
I huff a weak laugh. “I’ve been imagining a life that feels… calmer.”
She turns toward me slightly, attentive but not invasive. “Okay.”
“And every time I do,” I continue, “I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like I’m betraying someone.”
“Who?” she asks.
I hesitate. “I don’t know. Maybe… who I’ve been.”
She studies me for a moment. “Or who you think you’re supposed to be.”
The words land uncomfortably close to home.
“I hate that I want it,” I admit. “I hate that the idea of calm feels more appealing than passion or intensity or whatever I used to think love was.”
“Why?” Ellen asks.
“Because it makes me feel selfish,” I say. “And disloyal.”
She considers that. “Does chaos feel noble to you?”
I blink. “What?”
“Enduring something hard,” she explains. “Does it feel like proof of character?”
The question settles deep in my chest.
“I think… maybe,” I say slowly. “I think I learned that if something hurts, it must mean it matters.”
Ellen nods. “That’s a common lie.”
I look at her. “What if wanting calm means I’m weak?”
She shakes her head. “Or it means you’re tired.”
The simplicity of the answer nearly breaks me.
“I think about it a lot,” I confess. “About what it would be like to wake up without dread. To not feel like I’m constantly waiting for the next thing to go wrong.”
“And then?” she asks.
“And then I hate myself,” I say. “Because it feels like I’m already halfway gone.”
Ellen doesn’t rush to reassure me. She never does.
“Do you know who that life includes?” she asks instead.
I stiffen. “I’m not going to say that.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” she replies. “I asked if you know.”
I swallow. “Yes.”
She nods slowly. “Then here’s my advice.”
I brace myself.
“Don’t disappear into guilt,” she says, echoing her earlier warning. “And don’t romanticize escape either. Calm isn’t salvation. It’s just an environment.”
I frown. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Be honest with yourself,” she says. “About what you’re actually choosing. And why.”
The conversation lingers with me long after we part. I walk back to my dorm slowly, the sky darkening overhead, my thoughts heavy but clearer than before.
That night, lying in bed, I let myself imagine it again—not a person, not a forbidden scenario, but a life rhythm. Mornings without tension.
Conversations that don’t escalate. Support that doesn’t feel conditional.
I don’t attach a face to it.
I just let myself feel the longing.