Let me tell you about Silver. He’s in a mess (not the hot kind we like) right now—trying to turn a situationship into a relationship, chasing after someone who seems more interested in keeping him on a string than giving him anything real. She’s the type who tosses breadcrumbs, making him believe there’s a bigger meal coming, but all it’s doing is leaving him hungry for something she’ll never offer.
Watching Silver go through this is hard because it’s like déjà vu. I’ve been there—just not in his shoes. I’ve been in Silver’s shoes too, chasing after someone who wasn’t worth the sprint. But more than anything, watching this reminds me of a person who we will call Kilometer.
Ah, Kilometer. He earned that name because being with him was like running a marathon where the finish line kept moving. He was a master of the almost-relationship. He’d give me just enough to keep me in the race—a sweet word here, a vulnerable moment there—but never enough to make it real. Kilometer didn’t want a partner. He wanted a cheerleader, someone to validate him without expecting anything in return.
Silver’s person is doing the same thing to him, and it’s painful to watch. She keeps him guessing, keeps him hoping and stuck in this cycle of “maybe someday.” It’s the same game Kilometer played with me, and just like Silver, I bought into it for far too long.
The thing about trying to turn sex into something bigger is that it tricks you. The chemistry, the passion—it makes you think there’s more beneath the surface. And maybe sometimes there is, but in my experience? When someone keeps you running in circles, they’re not hiding love underneath. They’re hiding their inability to give you what you deserve.
I wish I could tell Silver that. I wish I could sit him down and say, “This isn’t love. This isn’t what it’s supposed to feel like.” Love shouldn’t feel like running a race you’ll never win. It shouldn’t feel like you’re constantly begging for scraps. It shouldn’t feel like Kilometer.
I’ve been in her shoes before, and it’s not a pair I’m proud to have worn. There’s a twisted kind of power in being the one who keeps things undefined—dishing out just enough affection to keep someone hooked while keeping the door cracked just enough to leave whenever it gets too real.
It’s not that I didn’t care about the people I strung along; I did, in my own way. But I cared more about the comfort of knowing someone was always there, ready to catch me when I needed to, without ever committing to catching them back. It’s a selfish kind of safety net, one that feels great in the moment but leaves you feeling hollow when you realize the hurt you’ve caused. And watching Silver chase after someone who reminds me of that version of myself? It’s a mirror I don’t want to look into—but one I can’t ignore.
But I know better than to say it outright. Because when you’re in it, you don’t want to hear the truth. You want to believe in the fantasy, even when it’s clear it’ll never be real. So instead, I’m just here. I’m reminding him that he’s enough, even if she doesn’t see it. I’m reminding him that love should feel steady, not like a sprint. And I’m hoping he gets there on his own, because no one could’ve told me back then either.
Lately, I’ve also been stuck in this haze of confusion, and the name at the center of it is Ante. In poker, the ante is the price of admission—it’s what you put in just to stay in the game. It’s not a bold move or a grand risk; it’s subtle, almost automatic, like something you do without thinking; to stay in the game before you’ve even been dealt a hand. And that’s how this feels: like I’ve been putting little pieces of myself into something without knowing what I’m hoping to win. There’s an undeniable connection between us, but every time I try to figure out what I actually want, I get lost. Do I want something bigger? Or am I just caught up in the moment, afraid of walking away and wondering if I’ll regret it later?
Sex feels like the center of it all—the spark that keeps us tethered—but it’s also the thing that leaves me questioning everything. Is it the foundation for something real, or am I just stacking cards, hoping it doesn’t all come crashing down? Every time we’re together, it feels like a house of cards: thrilling in its delicate balance, but one wrong move and the whole thing could collapse. I don’t know if I’m chasing something meaningful with Ante or if I’m just scared to admit that I might not even want it. Right now, every kiss feels like a gamble, every moment a game I don’t quite understand. And honestly, the hardest part isn’t the stakes—it’s realizing I don’t even know what I’m building, or if I want to keep playing at all.
The lesson? Lust is easy. Love is work. And if someone makes you feel like you have to run a marathon just to earn their affection, let them go. Kilometer taught me that, one painful step at a time. And now? I’m rooting for Silver to leave the race entirely. Because he’s not running toward love—he’s running away from what he truly deserves. Sometimes, you have to stop anteing up, stop throwing little pieces of yourself into something that was never meant to grow. Knowing when to fold isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom. It’s realizing that no matter how much you’ve already invested, staying in the game won’t magically change the cards you’ve been dealt. Love isn’t supposed to feel like a gamble where the odds are stacked against you. It’s not about chasing or convincing—it’s about finding someone who bets on you, too.
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff. Hess is a student at the University of Nevada studying journalism. She can be reached at emilyhess@sagebrush.unr.edu and on Twitter @emilyghess3.
