The Stirring

There is a moment—just before it all erupts—when I feel most alive. Not in the stillness, not in the quiet, but in the tension. In the charged air between words. The flicker in someone’s eyes when they’re about to say something they can’t take back. That’s where I live. That’s where I breathe.

I didn’t always know this about myself. I told myself I wanted peace, stability, a love that doesn’t waver. But when I had it—when the days were soft and the affection steady—I began to scratch at the walls. I picked at invisible wounds. I tested, I provoked. I watched, curious and cold, as serenity gave way to suspicion.

It’s not that I want chaos for its own sake. No. I want proof. Of love, of loyalty, of my own impact. I want someone to raise their voice, to tremble, to fight—because of me. Not out of malice, but necessity. If they’re willing to suffer, then maybe I matter.

I stir things that don’t need stirring. I say things that could have remained unsaid. I do it with a careful hand, like a scientist watching for a reaction. And when it comes—when the other person begins to unravel—I feel something sharp and thrilling in my chest. Not joy exactly, but recognition. Like I’ve been seen.

I’ve tried to stop. Truly. I’ve tried to settle into calm waters. But then comes the itch, the boredom, the feeling that I’m fading. I begin to wonder if they still care, if I still matter. And so I toss a stone into the lake just to see the ripples. Just to be sure I still exist.

It is a lonely thing, this hunger for drama. It drives people away. They grow tired, call me exhausting, say I make mountains out of air. But they don’t understand—flatness terrifies me. Stillness feels like death. I would rather be hated than invisible. I would rather cause pain than feel nothing.

And when they leave—as they always do—I sit in the aftermath I created. The silence stretches out around me. I tell myself I’ll do better next time. I’ll be softer, quieter, less volatile.

But then the stillness creeps in again. And I begin to stir.