The Splinter

It was a warm Saturday night when my phone buzzed. Want to grab a drink?

I said yes, of course. The bar is close to my apartment, walkable. On the way over I greeted the bouncer by name, which probably says enough about how often I’m there.

The place was loud. The kind of loud where you have to lean in and whisper in someone’s ear just to be heard. I don’t mind that, honestly. There’s something about it. She had already snagged two seats at the end of the bar. The worst spot if you know bars, and had her bag saving mine. I tapped her on the shoulder, gave her a hug, and sat down.

It has been a while since I’ve been on a date. Writing about it might be shooting myself in the foot, like last time. But this is how I process the world, so we press on.

The conversation flowed. We were flirting, leaning into each other to talk over the music. I had a genuinely good time. They say don’t kiss and tell, and I won’t. What I will say is that I’m probably not going to see her again. Not because anything went wrong, but because we’re just in different places.

I didn’t realize any of this at the bar. It came to me the next morning, while the wine was wearing off and the room was quiet again.

It’s always the sliver of hope that does it. That little thing. Like a splinter, you barely feel it go in. Then once it’s there, it works its way deeper than you expected. A text buzzes on a Saturday night from someone who had gone quiet all week, and suddenly I’m grabbing my jacket. The bait on a hook, and I already know I’m the fish.

And it’s not just her. There’s a girl I’ve been asking fora while now to go on a date. She never responds. I still ask. I keep holding onto that thread like if I pull it long enough something will unravel in my favor. Is that hope? Naivety? Some stubborn belief that the ones who don’t choose you are the ones worth chasing?

I’ve been thinking about why it’s always like this. Why it’s never the people who show up clearly and without condition. Why a little silence from someone makes them more interesting to me, not less.

I think it comes back to self worth. The uncomfortable, embarrassing truth of it. When someone who hasn’t chosen you suddenly pays attention, it feels like winning something. Like proof. But proof of what, exactly? That you’re finally enough? That you wore them down? It’s a fragile thing to build yourself on.

The splinter isn’t really about the girl. It’s about the small chance — the maybe, the almost, the unanswered text you send anyway. I let it pierce me every time. And every time I’m surprised by how much that small thing hurts.

I’m still trying to figure out what to do with that.