Translated by AI

The glow of the phone screen seems exceptionally glaring in the dead of night. I focus on the chat box, having mentally composed a message to send to you: an unexpected joke, an encounter with a peculiar passerby today, or simply "What are you doing?" My finger hovers over the "send" button, hesitating. Eventually, I hit back. The message disappears silently, as though it never existed.

This isn't the first time. In numerous instances where we wish to share, draw closer, or validate a relationship, we choose restraint, like seasoned warriors. That unresolved silence becomes the prevalent scenery in the adult world.

How did we become so practiced in self-censorship?

With age, we learn that not all feelings merit immediate expression, nor do all emotions have the right to intrude upon others' worlds. We discern whether their profile is active, if it's a busy workday or late at night to judge whether it's "appropriate" to send a message.

This empathetic growth teaches us to respect others' boundaries and freedoms. Everyone has their own life rhythm, worries, and burdens. We package our desires and impulses, label them "do not disturb," and quietly tuck them away within our hearts.

This suppression serves as a badge of our maturity. We are no longer the capricious child needing constant affirmation of love but mature adults who understand the importance of leaving space for others. We meticulously maintain distance, allowing relationships room to breathe, reducing friction and burden.

However, when "not disturbing" morphs into a habit or even a belief, it transitions from consideration to an extreme—self-isolation.

The "do not disturb" shield becomes so impenetrable that it not only blocks our interruptions to others but also cuts off chances for others to connect with us. We begin to assume:

"This isn't important to them."

"They must be busy; I shouldn't waste their time."

"I should handle my emotions myself."

This excessive "self-respect" stems from a deep-seated fear: the fear of rejection, of our sharing being perceived as burdensome, or of proving that we aren't as significant. Consequently, we preemptively retreat into our world, covering the vulnerability of "not being needed" with "not disturbing."

In the end, we discover that many relationships crumble not under the weight of arguments or betrayal, but through polite estrangement. Both parties maintain their boundaries, awaiting the other's cue until the distance grows so vast that even "Are you there?" feels intrusive. Consideration turns into a barrier, and propriety evolves into loneliness.

We are all learning not to disturb, a different form of love—respect and letting go. It shows that we love you but respect you more as an independent individual.

True intimacy isn't about unilateral non-disturbance but rather the mutual understanding of "allowing each other to disrupt." True security stems not from how many messages you suppress but from the assurance that even if you send that "inopportune" message, the other person can warmly embrace it or gently decline.

Therefore, we must learn to balance: uphold boundaries but occasionally permit crossings.

In moments of kindness, concern, or shared joy, relinquish the fixation on "perfect timing" and grant yourself the occasional right to speak up. For if both parties adhere stringently to "not disturbing," the relationship may ultimately freeze, imprisoned by courtesy and distance.

Throughout our lives, we are learning how to love and be loved, and the paramount lesson on this journey is discerning when to curb your impulses and when to bravely hit send.