Stop Flirting with Me Just Because I'm Breathing

I look up and blink too slowly, and they think I’m in love. I say “interesting” in a flat voice, and it becomes a riddle to be solved, a clue in some invented puzzle about my affection. I once said “oh?” and was asked if I meant it flirtatiously. I leave a message on read for three days, and suddenly I’m orchestrating a psychological thriller. I wear a black chunky knit because it’s cold and I don’t want to be perceived, so they decide I must be hiding poetry in my bra, and unspoken devotion in the sleeves.

I’m told I look like I’d ruin someone’s life, which is meant as a compliment when all I’ve done is exist politely in a public space. I nod in a lecture, and it becomes longing. I cross my legs, and it becomes a metaphor. Everything becomes a metaphor.

There is no such thing as neutrality when you’re a pretty girl. You become a canvas for other people’s projections, their longing, their delusions, and their need to be chosen.

Every silence is suggestive. Every quiet moment is a seduction scene they’ve rewritten in their heads by the time you’ve finished your tea. Every disinterest is taken as a puzzle to solve, a performance of restraint. They don’t believe you when you’re bored. They think you’re playing bored. Every boundary is a dare.

I say “I don’t date,” and he hears “try harder.”

I say “I’m not looking for anything,” and he hears “ but I might be with you.”

I say “I have to go,” and he hears “ convince me to stay.”

I say nothing, and he hears everything.

I leave the room, and it becomes a narrative arc.

I stay silent, and it becomes flirtation.

I look at a painting, and it becomes a metaphor for his feelings.

A man at a gallery once told me I had “mysterious energy.” I was just tired. I was just hungry. I was just not looking at him.

But they fall in love with the refusal. The lack. The half-second glance that wasn’t meant for them. They romanticise the unreturned gaze, the closed door, the girl who leaves early. They write poems about women who never replied. They crave the untouched part of you that has nothing to do with them, especially that. That’s the part they try to claim. That’s the part they call fate.

I once sent a man a list of corrections to his love letter. Marked it up in red like a school essay. Split infinitives, misused semicolons, a dangling modifier in the third paragraph. He called it “enigmatic.” Said I was “hard to read.” Said he’d “never met a girl like me.” You mistake disinterest for depth and correction for flirtation. You think anything that doesn’t kneel is mysterious. You call it high standards. You call it a challenge. You call it feminine mystique. I call it punctuation.

my insta <3

The problem with being charming is that people forget it’s often done out of boredom. It’s a reflex, not a promise. A trick you learned at dinner tables, in waiting rooms, on the phone with men twice your age who couldn’t take silence. It doesn’t mean you like them. It means you like control. Or maybe you just didn’t want to be rude.

The problem with being beautiful is that people think it means you owe them something warm. That you’re a hostess of some private emotion, and every glance should be dipped in honey. You smile once, and they remember it forever. You don’t smile, and they call you cold. You hold the door, and it’s taken as encouragement. You cross your legs, and it’s an invitation. You speak plainly, and it’s condescension. You retreat, and it’s foreplay. They want you glowing and grateful. Soft, but not cold. Sexy, but not complicated. They want the kind of beauty that never asks to be left alone.

And when I say no, they always think I’m flirting. As if I’m playing coy. As if “no” is the beginning of a story, not the end of one. I say it flatly, with the softness stripped out, and they still tilt their heads and grin like they’ve uncovered a secret. Like I’m hiding a yes somewhere in my tone, waiting to be coaxed out.

A few days ago, I rejected someone I had known for a while. Kindly, clearly. Two days later, he came back asking if I wanted to hook up. He only left me alone (for now) after I told him I had a boyfriend. I don’t. But apparently, a man’s existence is the only boundary they respect.

Sometimes, I just smile because why wouldn’t I? Because it’s polite. Because I was raised to be gentle in rooms full of noise. Because I don’t see the harm in kindness. But they always think it means something. They take good manners for invitation. A thank you becomes a breadcrumb. A glance becomes bait. Politeness, in their minds, is the opening act of seduction, never just softness for its own sake.

You learn quickly that innocence gets devoured just as fast as intention. That even your unthinking gestures get rewritten in someone else’s script. And then they call you manipulative. Say you “led them on.” As if their inability to read the room is your strategy. As if their projections are your responsibility. You smiled. You were nice. You said, “thank you.” And now you’re the villain in their heartbreak story.

They fall in love with an idea, and when you don’t return it, they act like you stole something. Like affection was a contract you broke by breathing near them. Like your politeness was a promise you forgot to keep.