I remember the days when hiding used to be fun. Crouching under the porch, or climbing up into the leafy branches of a tree, stifling laughter as our friends raced around the yard to find us.

Ready or not, here they came.

They heard a muffled laugh or the scrape of a sneaker against a rock, and they found us. It was so easy to be found, so easy to be brought out of hiding into the revealing light of the afternoon.

I was different. I was always the last to be found, the one with the creative, unsuspecting, sometimes dangerous hiding spot where no one would think to look. One time, my third-grade class went back inside from recess before finding me, leaving me alone on the playground still hidden underneath the dark lower level of the play scape; a place where most people were too big or too scared to crawl into. I was always so proud of myself, so happy to be so skilled at hiding at such a young age.

We’ve all outgrown such childish games, but I never outgrew my ability to hide. But unlike my playground days, today I’m not proud of myself for it. It’s a fatal flaw of mine, a trait of my character that I wish didn’t exist.

Most people would never suspect my ability to hide. My extroversion emits the impression that I wear my entire heart on my sleeve. Maybe that’s true, maybe I do. I talk and I talk and I talk about what makes my blood boil and my heart pound and my mind race, but I never talk about these things with the one who causes it.

I hide from him.

I hide behind texts that say “I’m fine” when in reality I’m far from it. I hide behind a message left on read, hoping to send a subtle hint that is never received. I hide amidst loud crowded basements of strange people, wishing he was there to see me dancing with my friends in an outfit I spent thirty minutes picking out, wishing he thought to himself from across the room, “Damn I should hold onto her, she’s a wild one.” I hide behind the baggy shirts of other people, misplacing my feelings for him on another set of emotionless lips. I hide behind my words, strategically mentioning names of other people while I’m around him, desperately wanting him to work harder to abolish fictitious competition. I hide from him, a person who I tell everything to.

I hide in fear. Fear of rejection, fear of change, fear of one more lost connection. I hide in insecurity. I hide in judgment of myself and comparison of myself to his previous girlfriends. I hide in jealousy of the friend who was with him before me, in fear that she’s right and that he’s not the person I think he is. I hide because feelings are scarier than any spider or snake or clown.

I can’t keep hiding like this, or just like in third grade, I’ll be left in my hiding spot alone with no one to hide from. Now that I’m grown, I can’t wait for someone to come and find me. It’s up to me to come out on my own, before it’s too late, before he’s gone.

Ready or not, here I come.