Please Keep Inviting Me (I Probably Won’t Come) 

I

don’t hate people. I like them, actually. I like connection, warmth, the comfort of familiar voices. I like the feeling of being known — not in the shallow, passing way, but in that quiet, unspoken recognition only a longtime friend — or a nosy cousin — can offer. But being around people is different from longing for them. The noise, the energy, the small talk that stretches too long… I tire quickly. I arrive hopeful, leave hollow. I show up craving closeness and end the night counting down to solitude.

Here’s how it goes: Someone invites me. A Shabbos meal. A simchah. A girls’ night. I say, “Maybe,” but we both know it means no. And then, almost immediately, I start spiraling. What will I wear? What will I say? Will I seem too eager, too aloof, too awkward? I picture the evening in detail — my outfit, the warmth of the room, the rhythm of voices. I imagine myself sliding into conversation with ease, laughing when I should, saying the right things. I imagine, in short, being someone who enjoys it. And then I close the message and let the dread set in.

It’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I care too much.