Ariella had spent so long responding that she had forgotten how to initiate.
The realization came to her on an unremarkable afternoon—one of those in-between days where nothing demanded her attention and no one needed her immediate care. She sat at her desk with a cup of tea growing cold beside her, a list of things she could do open on her screen.
Emails.
Errands.
Tasks she could complete to feel productive.
She stared at the list and felt… nothing.
No urgency. No pull.
Just a quiet question rising beneath the surface.
What do I actually want to do?
The question unsettled her.
Wanting had always felt indulgent—something she permitted herself only after meeting obligations, only if it didn't inconvenience anyone else. Desire had been conditional, negotiated, deferred.
Now, with no one waiting on her, she felt oddly blank.
Not empty—unpracticed.
She closed the laptop.
The silence that followed was thick with possibility and uncertainty. She felt a flicker of anxiety in her chest, the familiar discomfort of being without direction. For years, direction had come from need—someone else's need, something else's urgency.
Without that, she felt briefly unmoored.
She stood and walked to the window, watching clouds drift slowly across the sky. They moved without purpose she could name, unbothered by productivity or explanation.
She envied them.
I don't know what I want, she admitted to herself.
The admission felt vulnerable, but not shameful.
Just true.
Over the next few days, Ariella noticed how often the question surfaced.
When she woke in the morning.
When evenings stretched ahead of her.
When she found herself with time she didn't need to defend.
Each time, she hesitated.
Wanting felt risky.
Wanting meant claiming space. It meant acknowledging preferences that might conflict with others'. It meant choosing—not reacting.
She realized how deeply she had associated wanting with selfishness.
Needs were acceptable.
Obligations were admirable.
Desire was suspicious.
She wondered where she had learned that.
That weekend, she accepted an invitation to a small gathering—not because she felt obligated, but because she was curious. The distinction mattered.
She arrived early and stood awkwardly near the door, observing the room. Conversations flowed easily around her, punctuated by laughter and gestures that felt familiar and distant all at once.
She listened.
She didn't rush to fill gaps.
When someone asked her opinion, she paused long enough to check in with herself before answering. The delay felt strange—but grounding.
"I'm not sure yet," she said once, honestly. "I need to think about it."
No one objected.
No one seemed disappointed.
The relief surprised her.
Later, sitting on the couch with a small group, someone asked a simple question.
"So what are you excited about these days?"
The room quieted slightly—not because the question was heavy, but because it invited something real.
Ariella opened her mouth, then closed it.
She searched herself for an answer.
Nothing obvious surfaced.
"I don't know," she said finally. "I'm figuring that out."
The words felt exposed.
But instead of awkwardness, she was met with nods. Smiles. A quiet understanding.
"That's allowed," someone said gently.
Allowed.
The word echoed in her mind long after she left.
At home that night, she lay awake thinking about how rarely she had allowed herself to want without justification.
She had wanted rest—but felt guilty.
She had wanted solitude—but feared it looked like withdrawal.
She had wanted more—but didn't know how to ask without sounding ungrateful.
So she had learned to neutralize desire—to make it smaller, quieter, easier to manage.
She wondered what had been lost in that process.
The next morning, she decided to experiment.
Nothing dramatic.
She stood in the kitchen and asked herself again:
What do I want right now?
The answer came slowly.
A walk.
Not for exercise. Not for productivity.
Just to move.
She put on her shoes and left without planning a route. She followed whatever streets felt inviting, noticing how unfamiliar it felt to let preference guide her.
At one corner, she hesitated—left or right?
She chose right.
The choice felt small, but it sent a subtle thrill through her chest.
She laughed quietly at herself.
So this is how it starts, she thought.
Not with clarity—but with permission.
As the days passed, she practiced wanting in modest ways.
Choosing meals based on appetite rather than convenience.
Ending days when she felt tired, not when tasks were finished.
Saying yes to things that interested her—even if she couldn't explain why.
Each choice felt like stretching a muscle she hadn't used in years.
Sometimes, she overreached.
She committed to something out of curiosity, then realized it drained her. She didn't shame herself. She adjusted.
Learning how to want, she realized, also meant learning how to change her mind.
That felt revolutionary.
One afternoon, she met Lina again for coffee.
They spoke more easily this time, the earlier tension softened by time and honesty. At one point, Lina leaned back and studied her.
"You seem more… solid," Lina said.
Ariella smiled. "I feel less reactive."
Lina nodded. "It's noticeable."
A pause followed.
"So what do you want now?" Lina asked.
The question landed differently than before.
Ariella thought for a moment.
"I want space that feels intentional," she said slowly. "And connections that don't require me to shrink."
Lina's eyes softened. "That makes sense."
For the first time, Ariella noticed how natural it felt to articulate desire without apology.
She wasn't demanding anything.
She was naming herself.
That evening, she returned to her notebook.
She didn't write immediately.
Instead, she sat with the quiet and let the day replay gently in her mind—the choices she had made, the moments she had followed her own pull instead of obligation.
When she finally picked up the pen, the words came easily.
Wanting is not a betrayal of others.
It is an agreement with myself.
She paused, then added:
I am allowed to want things I can't yet explain.
The sentence felt like a door opening.
Of course, wanting brought uncertainty with it.
There were moments when she feared that desire would lead her somewhere lonely, or into conflict, or toward disappointment. She reminded herself that avoiding desire had not protected her from those things either.
At least now, she was choosing.
She began to trust that wanting didn't need to be fully formed to be valid. That curiosity was enough to begin.
One night, as she prepared for bed, she caught her reflection again.
She looked the same.
But something in her eyes had shifted.
There was less searching. Less anticipation of response.
More presence.
She realized that learning how to want wasn't about ambition or direction.
It was about relationship.
With herself.
She turned off the light and lay in the dark, feeling the quiet settle around her like a familiar blanket.
For the first time, she wasn't afraid of not knowing what she wanted next.
Because she finally trusted herself to find out—one honest choice at a time.