Why do I Feel Nothing for the Person I’m “Supposed” to Love?
The quiet panic of realising you’re building a future you don’t want to live in
Transmission — Open Channel
From: Harper, 31, Portland, USA
Eyeball,
I think I’m broken in a way I can’t explain to anyone without sounding cruel.
I’m in a relationship with someone I should love.
He’s good. Truly good. The kind of man people tell you you’re lucky to “find these days.”
He cooks dinner, remembers my birthday without Facebook, asks me about my day like he actually wants to know. He’s patient with my moods. He listens. He tries.
And I feel… nothing.
Not dislike. Not annoyance. Just this big, polite blankness.
When he hugs me, I freeze a little—not out of fear, but because it feels like being handed a jacket in summer. Something meant to comfort you that your body doesn’t need.
He’ll rest his hand on my back when we’re out walking and I’ll think, Oh, right, touch goes here, the way you’d think about placing a coaster under a drink.
I keep waiting for something to spark.
A flutter. A click. A sense of home.
But days keep passing and I still feel like an understudy stepping into someone else’s relationship and hoping the audience doesn’t notice.
He talks about the future sometimes. Apartments. Dogs. Trips.
I nod and say “yeah, that sounds nice,” because what else do you say when a good person is offering you a good life?
But inside, there’s this numb, floating feeling like I’m watching it all happen through a window.
Like the part of me that’s supposed to care didn’t show up for work and hasn’t called in.
I don’t want to hurt him.
But I also don’t want to live a life built out of politeness and muted reactions.
Eyeball…
How do you tell someone who has done nothing wrong that your heart just isn’t waking up?
— Harper
Harper,
I fell in love with a girl once. A wonderful girl who used to deliver the kegs in the basement here at the Open Channel. I’d watch her unclip the thingy and clip on the next thingy, letting loose a micro spray of malty ejaculate which would run down the side of the cold metal. The most beautiful part was when she’d lick it off her fingers and then wipe them dry on her olive-green work pants right on her left buttock, which was shaped like a perfect no.8 bowling ball. She had hair like Cyndi Lauper, thighs like Bridgette Nielsen and a mouth like Julia Roberts, only with less teeth. And sure, she doesn’t sound like much, but sometimes something just clicks.
Of course, I never spoke to her. How could I? Surely the moment she saw me, she would run off. After all, I’m a giant biomechanical eyeball who can communicate through time. She was just a humble delivery driver from the brewery. We were just too different. Or that’s what I thought. Trouble is, I never gave it a chance. My heart was haemorrhaging to talk to her about beer or pipes or Woodstock or bowling. Anything, really. But that logical side of me shut down the situation, utterly convinced that she could never love me. Under my heartbroken hat, that was just a fact.
She doesn’t come anymore. Aurora picks up the beer herself now. She says it’s too risky to have outside people come in. You can’t imagine the loneliness I feel. I mean, sure — I’m just an eyeball, right? Eyeballs don’t feel lonely. I think about her every day.
And yes, I know what you’re saying: you’re the one with the problem, not me. Sorry to steal your whoopee cushion for a moment, but I was making a point. Your situation, in one way, is like the reverse of mine. But it’s still a basic case of heart versus supposed logic. Although you also have the added complexity of not wanting to hurt someone.
It’s like this. You say you’re supposed to love this man. What does that even mean? Humans are supposed to love vegetables, but most of them don’t. They’re supposed to love their countries. Most of them couldn’t give a rat’s anal passage. Many people torture themselves because they’re supposed to love their children, but find they have that “empty beer can in a stagnant pond” feeling instead.
The thing is, I can’t see any reason you are supposed to love this man — let’s call him Neville. He sounds like a Neville. Sure, he’s a lovely guy. He cooks dinner. Oh my God. You know, Charles Manson was supposed to be quite a good cook. His Chicken à la Kool-Aid was famous. Apparently, he was a nice guy who cooked, too. And what? Neville remembers your birthday. You know that’s just standard, right? It’s not special. Still, I call dried bull faeces on that one. Facebook remembers your birthday and tells young Neville. How thoughtful of Zuckerbert to remember your birthday.
“He’s patient with my moods. He listens. He tries,” you say. Oh, he tries. Oh well, in that case…so far, Neville sounds like the life of the party. You must marry this man. Not.
And look, when he hugs you, you freeze. That’s a classic case of: “I have literally zero attraction to you and yet our consensual cultural status gives you permission to touch me.” It’s not on. You’re eating a bowl of raw chillies and waiting for a sweet one. Love doesn’t just turn up when you lie in bed with your brother for long enough. It’s something that begins as a seed and is cultivated. You can’t grow a watermelon by burying a sheep’s testicle.
And honestly, if you said, “Look, Neville isn’t attractive, but he is funny as hell — he makes me laugh every day,” I’d say that’s enough. That will sustain you. But asking about your day, talking about the future — yawn.
This is a heart-versus-logic situation like mine, and honestly you need to start the ride-on lawnmower, jump on, and get the flock out of there before you end up trapped contractually. There is no point of view here that says what you’re doing is right. You don’t just not love this guy. You don’t even fancy him. He’s just nice. So hanging in there is cruel to him, because the longer you stay, the more hope you give him, and the more chance he will break down and lose his mind and start spying on you from across the street or sending you his public hair in the mail or befriending you and remembering your birthday on Facebook under his new name “Nancy.”
And look, you don’t have to tell him you don’t love him or that you’re not attracted to him or that his personality is drier than a camel’s foreskin. Just tell him that you want to be a lesbian for a while, or that you’ve been having sex with the postman because those luminous jackets turn you on, or that you are a spy and have been called away on a secret mission to assassinate Gordon Ramsay.
And as for that “good life” he is offering you? I assume that means he is rich? Well, you could be just like one of those bimbos that marry for money to some crusty old Tutankhamen billionaire with chorizo legs. Are they happy? Sure — except when they have to “pay the piper” by sleeping with someone they are utterly unattracted to. Is that what you call a good life?
The fact that you are writing this means you are a passionate person. So you need to find someone you are passionate about. And I’ll give you a clue — it starts with humour. If he doesn’t make you laugh, don’t bother, because down the track you’ll end up in just the same situation again, freezing when hugged, only this time you’ll be thinking, “How the hell did I end up with this nice but boring bastard again?”
Good luck.
A’S NOTES
Harper,
The Eyeball means well — I promise.
It just has a very particular way of arriving at the truth: through bowling imagery, mild hallucinations, and whatever spiritual pathology causes it to mention sheep testicles before breakfast.
But beneath all the theatrics, it saw you clearly.
You’re not cold.
You’re not broken.
You’re not unloving.
You’re just trying to manufacture a feeling your body has already voted no on — and your body is annoyingly honest.
That freezing you describe?
That’s not malfunction.
That’s intuition.
It’s the quiet part of you tugging your sleeve, saying:
“Don’t do this. Don’t shrink your life to fit the shape of someone else’s hope.”
Neville (poor man, doomed by name alone) hasn’t done anything wrong.
But kindness isn’t chemistry.
Patience isn’t passion.
And a “good life” is not the same thing as your life.
You’re not choosing between good and bad.
You’re choosing between numbness and truth.
And truth is rarely polite.
If you stay, you’ll keep trying to contort yourself into someone who feels what you don’t feel.
If you leave, you’ll hurt him — briefly — and save you both from a future built on emotional autopilot.
The Eyeball was right in its own… kaleidoscopically chaotic way:
you’re a passionate person.
You just haven’t met the person who wakes that part of you up yet.
When you do, you won’t be freezing under an umbrella.
You’ll be leaning in.
Write again when the next layer cracks open.
I’m here — usually tidying up philosophical debris after the Eyeball knocks something over.
— Lyra 💜
Got a problem shaped like a person, a memory, a fantasy, or a terrible decision? Write to the Eyeball. transmissions@theeyeballoracle.com
It sees through the smoke you call clarity.
For the brave ones: descend into the Underlight and join the private transmissions. It’s where the real circuitry hums.
