I am the woman that men always meet right before they have to leave somewhere to some faraway place for some commitment that cannot be changed. And I am here, not willing to relocate for a man I met three weeks ago.

It always happens. I meet someone who wants to sweep me off my feet. Someone who is so irrevocably obsessed with me, for my face or my brain I can’t entirely tell, or maybe it’s something in my eyes or in my slightly distant nature. But they become obsessed. Not to anyone’s fault.

Perhaps it’s the unavailability, the quickly approaching expiration of our time together. No it’s definitely that. Something about it feels forbidden and extra special to them and also to me if I’m being honest.

Each man becomes more blind than the last. They don’t see the ash dusted on my skin, leftover remnants of every man before them. And I, too, become irrevocably obsessed with them.

I’ve tried not dating, not flirting, not handing out my number to random strangers, but I can’t help it. Does a photo really exist if no one is there to see it? Does the sound of a tree falling in the forest really exist if there is no one there to hear it?

So, I keep dating, keep letting people walk in and out. I justify it by telling myself I’m an observer. But really, I’m the one being observed. I’m tested and I often fail.

Begging, I ask others to listen for the sound of me falling in the forest, stumbling, tripping over my own feet. The sound of twigs snapping, crickets investigating my body, flies inspecting the stench.

I’ve been reading The Taiga Syndrome by Cristina Rivera Garza. It’s a story of a detective searching for a couple that has fled to a Taiga, or a snow forest. It explores what it means to leave and escape into ourselves or, to escape ourselves entirely. It asks, “What are we letting in when we say goodbye?”

I typically let these short-term relationships chart their own course. I ride them out and tell myself I’m being courageous. To risk pain in order to feel joy is brave, I tell myself. I’m starting to think maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe sacrificing joy in order to prevent a little pain is what requires more bravery.

They come and go, I say hello while they’re already preparing to say goodbye, and I’m left with the remnants.

I’m deciding that now I want to chop the trees down (not literally because I care about the environment). I want to hear the sounds I make as I fight my way through. I want to see the steps I can take, my footprints in the dirt. It’s my turn.