Aimless Orbit

“I used to think my detachment was strength. Now I know it was survival.” – La’shay, Aimless Orbit
“I don’t expect you to love like I do. I just ask that you accept that I love like this.” – La’shay, Aimless Orbit

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I’ve spent years rehearsing the art of emotional detachment like it was survival. Because at one point, it was.

In high school, I was always around the upperclassmen. I watched how they moved—watched how they cried over boys who barely remembered their middle names. I listened to the way they talked about love, breakups, cheating, ghosting, and I internalized every last bit of it. I watched heartbreak come easy. And silence come easier.

But what really flipped the switch for me was my own experience with sexual assault. It forced me into a reality that I couldn’t escape: that sometimes love doesn’t just hurt—it takes. And if it can take, it can be dangerous.

So I did what I had to.

I became the one who left first. I’d flirt, pull them in, play the part, then vanish before anyone got too close. The high of being untouchable—of choosing detachment—was intoxicating. It felt like I finally had control over something. Over anything.

And I ran with it.

I even let astrology justify it—Aquarius memes calling us heartless and emotionally unavailable? Say less. I wore it like a badge. I let that be the narrative. Because if people expected me to be cold, they’d never be surprised by the freeze.

But deep down, something felt off. Something soft, something warm—something I’d buried long ago—kept whispering underneath it all.

And college cracked it open.

I found myself in two different situations. One where I was giving love again, and one where I was just receiving it. The first felt like a punch in the chest. The second felt like a warm place I didn’t know I missed.

But I ran from both.

I ghosted the genuine one, not because I didn’t feel anything—but because I did. And feelings scared the hell out of me. Being soft meant being seen. And I didn’t think I was ready to be seen again.

Still, something had shifted. I couldn’t go back to being numb.

So I started chasing intensity again. Arguing, craving friction, craving that proof that I could feel something—even if it hurt. Even if it meant reliving my karma over and over again. And when it all caught up to me, it knocked the wind out of me.

The ghosting. The games. The silence.

It felt like every time I finally voiced my feelings, the other person disappeared. Like my softness was a red flag they couldn’t handle. Like being real was somehow too much.

So I started crying in secret.
In the shower. In my car.
At work. On a friend’s shoulder.
I cried, and cried, and kept crying—because every tear was proof that I hadn’t turned to stone.

I’m still learning to balance it all.

To hold space for the girl who built walls and the one who’s trying to tear them down.

To speak up—even when fear says, “Don’t.”
To express myself—even if I’m not met with the same energy in return.
To love—even when I’m scared of not being loved back.

Because that’s the thing I want people to understand:
When I say I feel deeply, I’m not asking you to match it.
I’m just asking you not to shame it.
Don’t run from it.
Just let it be.

Right now, I’m in a space where I’m trying to love out loud again. Not perfectly. Not fearlessly. But honestly.

I want the kind of love that feels like warmth in a cold room.
Like slipping under the covers after a long day.
Like laughter that doesn’t require shrinking first.

I still get scared that I’m too soft.
That I’ll give too much.
That my armor will fall off too soon.

But I also know I’m not the girl who ghosts anymore.

I’m not the girl who stomps on hearts to protect her own.

I’m the girl who’s learning to give again—even if my voice shakes when I do.

So no, this isn’t some dramatic transformation.
It’s not a grand declaration.

It’s just a soft return.
To me.

And maybe… to love, too.

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Drifters,

what parts of yourself are you still learning to love gently?
Let’s talk in the comments.