Lava lamp

A lava lamp doesn't start glowing right away. At first, the wax lies at the bottom and nothing happens. You have to wait. Give it time. And in that waiting there's something we just can't bear. Because deep down we know it could hold some magic. But we don't want to admit it. Because if we admit something matters to us, we'll have to stay. And if we stay, someone might hurt us. So a quiet game begins. Who pulls back first? Who stops waiting first? Who's first to say it's nothing? Because whoever leaves first won't get hurt. At least that's what we tell ourselves. We run before anything can happen, before the first drops rise from the bottom, before a light appears that could change something. Because we know too well what came before. We remember lamps that went out, people who walked away, moments we waited for that never came. We don't like to suffer, but we know how to run. We know every step, every excuse. We just don't know how to stay. But the worst comes when you meet an opponent just as good at running as you. At first, you don't see it. You sit in front of the same lamp and it feels like someone finally understands. And then you notice the details. The same smile when it gets too close. The same jokes instead of answers. The same glance toward the door. You look at that person like a mirror. And you see you're both just as wounded, that you carry the same old wounds, only earned in different places, from different people. That you both learned not to show where it hurts. That you're both just as empty inside and both try to cover that emptiness with something. And that you're both ashamed of who you really are. Of still needing something. Of the child sitting somewhere beneath it all, who once stood before someone else's lamp and wished so badly that someone would see how much it cared. Except neither of you wants to be the one who shows it first. You know exactly what that person will do. You know when they'll glance at the door. You know when they'll say they have to go. You know their every move, because you've made them yourself for years. For a moment you think it might be worth a try. That maybe someone who knows running from the inside will understand how hard it is to stay. You wonder if you can catch a rabbit that's running away. But the rabbit doesn't run because it's bad. It runs because it's scared. Just like you. And two frightened rabbits don't stand still. They just run. So before he can take the first step, you're already at the door.