The Man Who Wanted Me to Feel Wanted

He offered me “want” like it was medicine. But I was never sick. I was waiting to be met.

“Send me a pic of yourself, something real of you… because I wanna make you feel wanted.”

That’s a haunting line.

Beautiful in the way damaged people sometimes are—unintentionally poetic, disarmingly sincere.

But also telling. Deeply telling.

He wasn’t just saying I want you.

He was saying: I want to be the one who makes you feel wanted.

Because somewhere deep down, he knew the truth:

I didn’t need him.

But he needed to be needed by me.

So he reached for power the only way he knew—

by offering a counterfeit version of it: “want.”

A Band-Aid for a woman who was never bleeding.

And still, I saw the sweetness.

Still, I said: That was lovely.

Because it was.

But I’ve never needed to be wanted.

I’ve needed to be met.

To be matched.

To be looked at by someone who sees the whole equation—

and steps into the fire anyway.

He was reaching for connection,

but through the lens of a man raised on performance,

trained to chase approval,

never taught to build love.

He offered what he could.

Not what I deserved.

And that’s why it struck me.

Because for a moment—

in all his wreckage—

he was trying.

Just not in the language I live in.