A year ago—almost to the day—I got back together with Kilometer. I wish I could say I’ve learned from that mistake, that I walked away wiser, that I no longer have the same old habits of slipping back into the arms of someone who’s only half holding onto me. But part of me still wonders if I ever will.
It wasn’t planned, it never is. It started with a text. A simple, meaningless excuse to reopen a door I should have welded shut. I think he said he had something of mine. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t (he definitely did). It doesn’t really matter. The important thing was that I let myself believe there was some unfinished business to resolve when, really, all that was left were excuses to justify walking back into something I knew wasn’t good for me. And the next thing I knew, I was right back where I swore I’d never be—curled up next to him, convincing myself it wasn’t a mistake. Pretending I wasn’t retracing old steps, stepping into the same cycle I already knew by heart.
Because that’s the thing about going back: it’s easy. It’s familiar. It doesn’t demand anything new from me. Kilometer was always chaos—never certain, never safe—but I understood the rhythm of it. The late-night calls that meant nothing and everything at the same time. The almost-love, the almost-commitment, the almost-something that kept me coming back, hoping it would eventually turn into more. I should have known better. I did know better. But I went back anyway.
Because the hardest part of leaving isn’t walking away—it’s staying gone.
I always tell myself I won’t make the same mistake twice. But history has a funny way of repeating itself, especially when you’re the one flipping back to the same old chapter, trying to convince yourself the ending might be different this time.
And now, a year later, I catch myself slipping into the same patterns. Not with Kilometer—at least, not this time—but with Tree. He’s not as reckless, not as gut-wrenching. But he still has me standing in limbo, waiting for something that may never come. We text, we sleep together, we orbit around each other like two people who refuse to name what we are. It’s not as toxic, but it’s just as uncertain. And maybe that’s the real problem. Maybe I’ve been conditioned to believe that love is supposed to be confusing. That if it’s not a little bit painful, it’s not real.
Or maybe—and this is the hardest truth to admit—I like it this way. Maybe I’m more secure in the comfortability of limbo than I am in the fight for something I actually deserve. Because here, at least, I know the rules. I know this person, I know what to expect, I know how this story goes. There’s no risk of real rejection when nothing is real to begin with. There’s no moment where I have to hear, definitively, that I am not enough. Limbo lets me live in the ‘maybe,’ in the possibility that if I just stay long enough, if I just wait a little longer, something will shift.
I tell myself that maybe Tree is just waiting for the right moment. Maybe he’s not saying what we are because he’s scared too. Maybe if I hold on a little longer, we’ll just naturally fall into something real. And maybe it’s all BS. Maybe I’m just so afraid of demanding something more that I keep settling for something less.
But the problem with waiting rooms is that they’re never the destination. And that’s exactly what limbo is—a waiting room for disappointment. I’ve spent so much time here, convincing myself that patience and passivity are the same thing. That if I don’t push, if I just let things play out, maybe this time it’ll be different. But the truth is, I am not waiting for some grand reveal—I am stalling. Because moving forward means facing reality, and reality means admitting that this? This isn’t it.
And it’s not just love. It’s friendships, too. It’s the people I have loved deeply, the ones I have held onto long after they stopped holding onto me. Because I don’t know how to let people go. I never have. No matter how one-sided it becomes, no matter how much I tell myself that a relationship—romantic or otherwise—should be mutual, I still fight for the ones I love. Even when I shouldn’t. Even when holding on does more damage than letting go.
Alabama tells me I need to let Tree go. That I need to stop waiting for him to want me the way I want him. She’s probably right. She’s definitely right. But it’s hard to listen when I know she did the same thing when she was my age. Maybe that makes me naive, thinking I’ll be the exception. But I feel it to my core—I cannot let people go, no matter how much they’ve hurt me. No matter how much they continue to.
I have rewritten friendships in my head, romanticized the best moments so I don’t have to face the reality of the worst ones. I have convinced myself that if I just love harder, if I just try more, people will stay. And when they don’t, when they make it clear that I am the only one still fighting, I still can’t bring myself to walk away. Because giving up on someone I love feels like cutting off a part of myself. Like admitting defeat. Like proving every insecurity I have about not being enough.
So I hold on, even when it hurts. Even when it’s me who’s doing all the reaching. Even when I know deep down that some people don’t belong in my life anymore. I tell myself that history matters. That years of friendship can’t just disappear. That if I let go, it means none of it was real to begin with. But the truth is, people show you where they stand. And sometimes, we’re the only ones still standing in a place we were meant to leave behind.
Because what happens if I finally stop waiting? What happens if I let go of Kilometer and Tree and every other guy who keeps me at arm’s length but never close enough? What happens if I stop holding onto friendships that have already let go of me?
I like to think I’d get what I deserve. That I’d find people who actually want to be in my life. That I’d finally know what it feels like to be chosen.
But the scary part is, what if I don’t?
What if I walk away from Tree and never find something better? What if I let go of the friendships I keep chasing only to be left completely alone? What if I finally accept that some things, some people, were never mine to keep?
Because for all of its frustration, for all the heartbreak and confusion, limbo is still something. And something always feels better than nothing.
That’s the trap. That’s why I went back to Kilometer. That’s why I keep letting Tree linger in my life. That’s why I fight for people who have already left. Because something—even if it’s not enough—is still more than the empty space that letting go leaves behind.
So, here I am. A year later. Standing at the edge of another bad decision, another ‘maybe,’ another loop that feels eerily familiar. Maybe this time, I’ll finally learn to walk away. Or maybe I won’t.
Either way, at least I’ll have another confession to write. Cheers to growth—or whatever this is.
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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.
