Eternal Ephemerals

Oversharing

It happened again today, and, as usual, it left that familiar hollow feeling in her chest. Lara had been sitting at the kitchen table, talking to her father, who was reading the newspaper with half his attention on her, half on the headlines. She'd started with something simple—a comment about the weather, about how hot it had been lately—but before she knew it, she was off on a tangent, spilling everything. Stories about her day, her frustrations, her fears, the thoughts that had piled up in her head for weeks, desperate to escape.

She'd watched her father's eyes flick up from the paper occasionally, a small nod here, an absent "uh-huh" there, but it wasn't enough. She could feel herself talking too much, feel the words spilling out like water rushing from a dam, unstoppable. Filling every inch of space between them, leaving no room for silence, no room for him to slip in. And then, inevitably, the moment came when she realized—again—that she'd said too much.

Her father had looked up, given her a soft, distracted smile, and then said, "Uh, well, that's nice, sweetie." And just like that, the conversation was over. He returned to his paper, and she sat there, her words still hanging in the air, unanswered, like an echo bouncing back at her, growing fainter with each return.

Lara had excused herself quietly, retreated to her room like she always did when it happened. It wasn't just her father—it was everyone. Her sister, her friends, even her coworkers. Every conversation seemed to end the same way. She would share, and share, and share until there was nothing left for the other person to say. They never seemed to give anything back. They always closed off. Always kept things light.

Why was it always nothing?

Why did it feel like she was the only one exposing herself, the only one laying everything bare, while everyone else kept their thoughts locked away, unreachable? Why was she always the one offering up her heart, her mind, her worries, only to be met with vague reassurances or distracted nods?

She threw herself onto her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every conversation she'd had that week. There was Megan, her best friend, who had nodded and listened patiently while Lara rambled about work, about the small annoyances of her day, offering the occasional comforting word but never bringing up her own struggles. There was her sister, who had called last night, and within five minutes, Lara had somehow taken over the conversation, again talking about her own problems while her sister stayed quiet, giving vague, tired responses until she had to hang up.

Why is it always me? The thought tumbled around in her mind like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable. Was it her fault? Was she too much? Too loud, too open, too desperate for connection? She knew she talked a lot—she had been told that her entire life. She knew she had a tendency to overshare, to ramble, to try too hard. But wasn't that what you were supposed to do with people you loved? Share yourself fully, leave nothing hidden? Wasn't that how you created closeness? She wanted to feel understood, to bridge the gap between herself and others. But maybe she was going about it all wrong.

Maybe I'm overwhelming them.

The thought sent a cold wave through her. Maybe that was it. Maybe her constant talking, her endless flood of words, left no room for anyone else. Maybe they didn't feel like they could share with her because she was always too busy filling the space with her own stories, her own fears. Maybe her attempts to connect were backfiring, pushing people away instead of drawing them closer.

She turned onto her side, staring out the window as the late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden shadows on the floor. Could she stop? Could she learn to hold back? Could she sit in silence with someone and just... wait? Let them have the space to talk, to share something about themselves, without her jumping in to fill the quiet with more of her?

The silence scared her, though. She could feel it tightening her chest just thinking about it. Silence was where her fears lived, where the real terror came in. The fear that if she didn't fill the space, if she didn't pour herself out to the people she loved, they wouldn't meet her halfway. They'd leave her in the quiet, untouched, unconnected, alone.

But isn't that already happening? she thought bitterly. Aren't you already alone, even when you're with them?

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees, her breath shallow, trying to untangle the knot that was tightening in her chest. If she didn't talk, there'd be nothing. She'd be left with silence and small talk and that unbearable distance between herself and everyone else. But if she kept talking—if she kept throwing her heart out there, desperate for someone to catch it—wasn't she just pushing them further away?

She felt trapped. It was a cycle she couldn't break, a dance she didn't know how to stop performing. If she held back, the silence would suffocate her. If she kept talking, she'd drown everyone else. Either way, the distance between herself and the people she cared about seemed to grow larger, no matter what she did.

The worst part was she didn't even know what she wanted. Did she want them to open up to her? Did she want to hear their secrets, their worries, their fears? Or did she just want them to care about hers? Was she just waiting for someone to step in, to look at her and say, "I see you. I understand. You don't have to keep talking for me to know how you feel." Was that it? Did she need to feel seen? Or did she just need to feel less alone?

Her mind spiraled, wrapping itself around questions she didn't have answers to. She wished she could stop thinking, stop feeling so much all the time. Everything felt too close, too intense. She felt like she was on the edge of something, some cliff she couldn't see the bottom of, and no one else even noticed she was about to fall.

Maybe she was making this all up in her head. Maybe people didn't need her to change. Maybe they liked listening to her. Maybe they didn't need her to leave space because they didn't have anything to say. But how could that be true, when she felt so heavy with the weight of everything she'd shared, and no one seemed to be holding any of it with her?

What's wrong with me? she thought, burying her face in her hands. Why can't I just be like everyone else? Why can't I just let things be simple?

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, scrolling through her messages, stopping at a few half-read texts. There was one from Megan from yesterday: "Thanks for listening to me. You're always there when I need you."

Lara frowned at the words, reading them over and over. Had Megan needed her? Had she been there for Megan, or had she just talked about herself the whole time, like she always did?

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys, then typed, "Hey, are you sure you're okay? I feel like I talked too much yesterday." 

The dots appeared immediately—Megan was typing. Lara's heart beat a little faster, uncertainty twisting in her gut. She watched as the message appeared: "You didn't talk too much. You never do. I was just happy to hear you. And I'm okay, really. But... I guess I've been feeling a bit off lately. Do you want to grab coffee tomorrow?" 

Lara blinked, surprised. She reread the message, feeling the tightness in her chest loosen, just a bit. Maybe she wasn't getting it all wrong. Maybe she just needed to try, a little more, to let people have the space to open up. Maybe it wasn't that they didn't want to share—maybe it was just that they were waiting for her to give them the chance.She typed back, "

Of course. I'd love that." She paused, then added, "And I'm always here for you too, you know. Not just the other way around." 

Megan's reply came a moment later: "I know, Lara. I really do." 

Lara put her phone down, a small smile tugging at her lips. Maybe she talked too much. Maybe she overshared, filled the silence when she should have let it be. But maybe, just maybe, there was still room for her to learn. And maybe the people who loved her already understood that, and were just waiting for her to see it too.