I’m in bed in Georgia, rain tapping the windows like it’s gossiping about my life choices. Laptop open on my lap, hoodie swallowed me whole, legs tangled in sheets like a moody pretzel. The chocolate cravings crashed the party at 3 p.m. (hormones’ favorite happy hour), so I’m popping M&Ms one by one, sorting them by color because that’s the level of control I have left when everything south of my navel is staging a coup.
The rain’s got that steady rhythm—not dramatic enough to be poetic, just persistent enough to be annoying. Like him. Like this whole situation. I’ve got a heating pad somewhere under this pile of blankets, probably cold by now because I forgot to plug it back in after the last cramp wave. My phone’s face-up on the pillow next to me, screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications that aren’t from him. Instagram. Email. Some app I forgot I downloaded reminding me to “practice gratitude.” Yeah, I’m real grateful right now.
Four days ago? Magic. We had sex—the kind that rewinds in your head on loop, all sweat and “don’t stop” and that post-orgasm glow that makes you believe in forever. Hot, filthy, replay-worthy sex. The kind that should come with a warning label: “May cause attachment; side effects include obsessive daydreaming and the false belief that emotional consistency is possible.”
I’m talking the kind of sex where you forget your own name for a second. Where you’re tangled up and can’t tell whose leg is whose and you don’t care. Where the room smells like skin and want and something that feels dangerously close to love but you don’t say that word because it’s too soon and too much and too real. The kind where afterward, you’re both just lying there, catching your breath, and the silence isn’t awkward—it’s full. Heavy with something unspoken but understood.
Or so you think.
Because here’s what I’ve learned: men hear that silence differently. We’re lying there composing mental wedding vows, and they’re already planning their exit strategy, wondering how long they have to cuddle before it’s socially acceptable to check their phone.
And like absolute clockwork, his predictable loop™ kicked in the second the sheets cooled.
Day 1 post-sex: lingering texts, heart emojis, “thinking about you.” Messages that come in steady, unprompted. Good morning texts. Random memes. That vulnerability hangover where they actually still feel the connection and haven’t yet retreated into their emotional panic room.
Day 2: slows to a trickle. Responses get shorter. The emojis disappear first—those are always the canary in the coal mine. “Thinking about you” becomes “haha yeah” becomes “cool.” You can feel the distance stretching like taffy, but you tell yourself you’re being paranoid. He’s probably just busy. Everyone’s busy. You’re busy. It’s fine.
Day 3-4: full ghost mode. No read receipts (smart coward—he turned those off ages ago so I can’t even play detective with the little blue checks). Just silence. Ignoring like it’s his job, like he’s getting paid overtime for every hour he doesn’t respond.
And here’s the thing: I know what this is. I’ve read the articles. I’ve listened to the podcasts. I can diagnose this attachment style in my sleep. He’s not mad. He’s not busy. He’s not “going through something.” He’s a fearful-avoidant doing what they do best: love-bomb, bone, bolt behind the emotional sofa, and wait for you to come knocking so he feels pursued without having to pursue. It’s their superpower. Annoying as hell, but predictable as taxes.
The fearful-avoidant playbook is actually genius if you’re into emotional terrorism. Get close enough to hook someone, pull back the second they respond to that closeness, then wait. Just wait. Because if you chase, it confirms you care (dopamine hit for them), but they don’t have to be vulnerable. And if you don’t chase, they can tell themselves they were right all along—no one actually wants them, see? It’s self-fulfilling prophecy meets emotional Jenga.
Me? I go about my days. Work. Captions. Rainy-day scrolling. Pretending I’m not checking my phone every 11 minutes like a lab rat hitting the dopamine lever. I’m functional. I’m fine. I’m giving him space because that’s what the therapists and the self-help books say to do. “Don’t chase. Let them come to you. If they want to reach out, they will.”
I make coffee. I answer emails. I laugh at my friend’s texts. I watch half of a show I’m not really watching because I’m too busy refreshing Instagram to see if he’s viewed my story (he has, which somehow makes the not-texting worse). I’m adulting through this like a champion. Look at me, so mature, so secure, giving space, not being needy.
Until I crack.
Because here’s what they don’t tell you about “giving space”—it works until it doesn’t. Until you’re human and you miss someone and you think, “Why am I playing games? Why can’t I just say I had fun and I miss him?”
So I text first.
“hiiii still replaying the other night, miss your dumb face 🥺”
Sent. Delivered.
I stare at my phone like it’s a Magic 8 Ball that’s going to reveal my romantic future. I watch the timestamp update. 3:47 PM. Then 3:48. The message just sits there, delivered but not read, a digital monument to my vulnerability.
…nothing. No typing bubble. No accidental like. Just radio silence while the rain keeps score, tap-tap-tapping its judgment against the window.
I was handling it. Adulting through the ignore phase like a champ. Telling myself it’s fine, he’ll respond when he responds, I’m a whole person without his validation.
Then my period shows up.
Day one. Zero to villain in 2.5 seconds.
I’m talking full transformation. Jekyll to Hyde. Reasonable Woman to Rage Monster. The cramps hit first—that deep, twisting ache that radiates from your uterus to your entire existence. Then the fatigue, like someone swapped your blood for cement. Then the emotions.
Oh, the emotions.
Hormones flood in like they own the place, cranking every emotion to 99999K. One minute I’m chill(ish), scrolling, eating chocolate, accepting that men need space. The next I’m She-Hulk with a phone and a hit list, and his name is at the top in bold, underlined, highlighted.
His post-sex ignore isn’t “space” anymore.
It’s betrayal. Abandonment. Proof the sex meant nothing to him. Proof I’m just another body, another conquest, another story he’ll tell his boys while I’m over here sorting M&Ms by color and wondering why I’m not worth a text back.
My brain queues up a montage of every “seen” he’s ever ignored, narrated by my uterus in a villain voice: “He used you for the replay reel and dipped. He’s probably texting someone else right now. He’s probably laughing about how you texted first. Destroy him.”
The rational part of my brain—the part that was fine two hours ago—tries to intervene: “Wait, this is just hormones talking, you were literally fine yesterday—”
But Hormone Brain isn’t listening. Hormone Brain is building a case like a prosecutor. Exhibit A: the four-day silence. Exhibit B: the turned-off read receipts (premeditated avoidance). Exhibit C: that time three months ago when he did the exact same thing and I forgave him and now look where we are.
And just like that, I’m ready to pick a fight over thin air.
The thing is, I know what I’m doing. I’m self-aware enough to recognize the cycle. I can feel my rational brain being shoved into the corner by my hormonal brain, watching helplessly as I draft and delete seventeen different text messages, each one angrier than the last.
Draft 1: “Hey, just checking in, hope you’re okay!” (Too nice. Delete.)
Draft 2: “So are we just not talking now or…?” (Too passive-aggressive. Delete.)
Draft 3: “You know what? Never mind. I’m good.” (Too trying-to-sound-unbothered-while-clearly-bothered. Delete.)
I don’t send any of them. Not yet. But I want to. God, I want to. I want to blow up his phone. I want to show up at his place. I want to make him feel even a fraction of this chaos I’m feeling.
But here’s the real mindfuck of the situation:
I’m the one who texted first.
Because fearful-avoidants thrive on the chase—they want you begging at the door while they hide behind the sofa, peeking out to see if you care enough to knock harder. They want the validation without the vulnerability. They want to know they matter without having to prove they matter to you.
I just wanted to cuddle, maybe reference the sex without sounding desperate, maybe hear that he had fun too, that it meant something, that I’m not insane for feeling connected to someone after intimacy.
He wanted to ignore and “regulate,” letting the distance build his desire back up. Because for fearful-avoidants, desire is inversely proportional to availability. The farther you are, the more they want you. The closer you get, the more they panic.
Then my period rolled in with 99999K emotions smashed into one hormonal grenade, and suddenly I’m launching it straight at his silence for no reason at all.
Except there is a reason. There’s always a reason. It’s just that the reason is written into our biology, our psychology, our very code as women navigating a world where vulnerability is currency and men are taught to hoard it like dragons guarding gold.
Yes, we do this shit.
Yes, it’s baked into the code.
Blame Eve—and thank the Bible for the original blueprint.
Because this isn’t new. This isn’t a modern dating phenomenon created by texting and apps and avoidant attachment styles. This is ancient. Biblical. The OG relationship dynamic.
Genesis, uncut edition:
Picture this: The Garden of Eden. Pre-apple, pre-shame, pre-knowledge of good and evil. Adam and Eve just invented sex. Mind-blowing, garden-shaking, “where have you been all my eternity” sex. They’re the only two people on earth, so there’s no performance anxiety, no comparison, no “was it good for you?” It’s pure, uninhibited, exactly what sex was designed to be.
Eve rolls over afterward, all glowy and soft, oxytocin flooding her system (fun fact: women release oxytocin during orgasm, which bonds us to our partners—thanks, biology, for making us emotionally attach to people who may or may not deserve it). She’s feeling connected, vulnerable in the good way, like this moment matters.
“Come here,” she says, reaching for Adam. “Hold me. Tell me I’m your rib and your whole world. Tell me what this means.”
Adam (the prototype fearful-avoidant) feels the intimacy closing in like walls. His brain, fresh from orgasm, is already shifting gears. The connection that felt good five minutes ago now feels suffocating. He panics.
“Gotta…” He looks around frantically. “Gotta name some animals. Yeah. That giraffe over there? Definitely need to handle that today.”
And he ducks behind the nearest fig tree, hoping she’ll chase so he feels wanted without having to show up consistently. Classic move. Tale as old as time.
Eve, confused but trying to be cool, goes about her days. She eats some fruit (fateful choice, that one). She names butterflies. She tends the garden. She checks the fig tree every hour like it’s her phone, wondering if Adam’s still back there or if he’s finally ready to talk.
She tells herself she’s being patient. She’s giving him space. She’s not needy.
Then—bam—first period ever.
No warning. No gradual build-up. No Midol or heating pads or understanding that this is just part of the monthly cycle. Just sudden, shocking, “what fresh hell is this” cramping like God’s doing Pilates in her abdomen. Hormones hitting like a divine prank.
Eve doesn’t understand what’s happening. All she knows is that everything hurts, she wants to cry for no reason, and that fig tree Adam’s been hiding behind for three days suddenly represents every man who’s ever taken intimacy and run.
She storms the garden, finds Adam peeking out like a busted kid with his hand in the fig jar, and unleashes every emotion in the emotional spectrum at once:
“Was that just a one-time Eden thing? Do you even LIKE me, or was I just convenient? We’re literally the only two people on Earth and you’re AVOIDING me? I gave you a rib! We had SEX! And now you’re what, naming animals? ANIMALS?!”
Adam, fig leaf trembling: “Uh… God? A little help here? Why all the emotions?!”
God, facepalming from the clouds: “Adam, zip it. Seriously. Bring her the ancient equivalent of chocolate—figs count. Nod. Agree with whatever she says. And for My sake, never, EVER tell her to ‘calm down.’ I tried that with the leviathans once—still finding seashells in weird places.”
Adam, desperate: “But she’s being irrational—”
God: “I will smite you myself. FIGS. NOW.”
And boom: the template was set. The pattern established. The loop created.
Sex → ignore → chase → period → emotional apocalypse → man prays for mercy → eventual makeup → repeat.
It’s been the same ever since. Fast-forward 6,000 years through every civilization, every culture, every generation: same script, new actors.
Your fearful-avoidant hides post-sex, you adult through it until Aunt Flo arrives with the amplification mic, and suddenly his silence is the end of the world. Every ignored text becomes evidence of his lack of care. Every hour without contact becomes proof you don’t matter.
And the worst part? You KNOW you’re being extra. You KNOW the hormones are lying to you. You KNOW that in five days you’ll feel completely different about all of this.
But knowing doesn’t help when you’re in it.
It’s not you. It’s not even really him.
It’s biblical programming, baby. It’s thousands of years of evolutionary biology meeting modern dating dynamics. It’s oxytocin and progesterone and testosterone all doing their own thing while you’re just trying to figure out if a guy likes you.
So here I am, in bed in Georgia, rain still gossiping, M&Ms dwindling, heating pad finally plugged back in, drafting and deleting texts I’ll probably regret sending but will definitely send anyway because that’s what we do in the loop.
To every woman mid-loop reading this: chase if you want, but know the fight’s coming when the blood does. It’s inevitable. It’s biological. It’s biblical. You’re not crazy—you’re just a daughter of Eve, living out the same pattern that’s been playing since the garden.
To every man hiding behind the sofa (or the fig tree, or the “I’m just busy” excuse): peek out before day five, or prepare for She-Hulk. Bring chocolate. Agree with everything. Don’t mention hormones unless you have a death wish. And for the love of God (literally), don’t tell her to calm down.
We’ll make up in a week with even hotter make-up sex. Because that’s part of the loop too. The reconnection after the explosion. The vulnerability after the walls come down. The intimacy that feels earned because you survived the hormonal apocalypse together.
Until the next loop.
Because there’s always a next loop.
The rain’s still tapping. My period’s still cramping. My phone’s still silent.
But at least now I can blame Eve.
You’re welcome for the sermon.
XOXO, Your favorite rainy-day, M&M-munching, Bible-quoting war criminal 🩸🍫☔📖
