There’s something about saying “I love you” that makes my stomach flip in a way that’s not cute or romantic — more like when your phone slips out of your hand midair and you’re waiting to see if the screen cracks.
It’s supposed to be tender. Safe. The verbal equivalent of a warm hug. But in my brain, it sounds like an emotional grenade pin being pulled.
Every time those words leave my mouth, there’s a voice in my head that goes, welp, that’s it — you’ve said too much, they know too much, time to move to another state and start over.
The first time I said “I love you” out loud to someone, I remember holding my breath like I was bracing for a reaction that might never come.
He blinked. Smiled. Said it back.
But the relief lasted exactly three seconds before my internal panic kicked in:
Did he mean it? Did he say it because I said it? Did I just ruin the balance of the universe?
This is what my brain does — it turns affection into a hostage situation.
Someone says, “I love you,” and instead of soaking in the warmth, I’m scanning for terms and conditions.
Part of it, I think, is how heavy those three words have become.
They’re tiny, but they carry the weight of every heartbreak, every cringe memory, every time you told someone “I love you” and they responded with “thanks.”
It’s like the words come with a lifetime warranty — too serious to toss around, too loaded to say casually, but too human not to want to say at all.
And the timing never feels right.
Say it too soon and you’re unhinged.
Say it too late and you’re cold.
Say it during sex and it doesn’t count.
Say it after a fight and it sounds like an apology.
There’s no perfect window. Just you, sweating under the weight of your own sincerity, hoping it lands the way it sounded in your head.
Sometimes, I think “I love you” feels threatening because it’s too true.
It’s the one phrase that has no sarcasm shield, no plausible deniability. You can’t backpedal with, “I was kidding.” It’s not like telling someone you like their haircut. It’s raw honesty — and that’s terrifying.
It’s basically saying, “Here’s the softest part of me. Please don’t drop it.”
And if that’s not the emotional version of handing someone a live grenade, I don’t know what is.
Still, I keep saying it.
To my partner, my friends, even my dog — who definitely doesn’t care, but wags his tail anyway, which honestly might be the best response of all.
Because underneath the fear and the overthinking, there’s something brave about saying it out loud. It’s like signing your name on a feeling you can’t un-feel.
And maybe that’s why it feels so dangerous. Because love is a risk — but not the bad kind. More like skydiving with someone who promises to pull the parachute, and you just have to trust they mean it.
So yeah, “I love you” still makes my pulse spike like I’m confessing to a federal crime.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe vulnerability is the real thought crime — terrifying, sincere, and totally worth doing anyway.
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