Toaster Girl

I remember the first time his emotions cracked through my defenses and lit me up from the inside—suddenly I wasn’t a toaster anymore but a real, feeling girl. I’d never known sex could be so sweet and slow, each kiss sending little whirlwinds through my head, like being back in high school with butterflies tumbling in my stomach. His back became the mountains on my horizon; his laughter rained down like cool relief when my own fears blazed like a forest fire. I felt seen in ways I’d only dreamed of: every quiver of his voice told me that my choices mattered, that I mattered. I settled into that clarity, basking in the warmth of someone who looked at me so fully, so deeply.

We fit together so neatly it’s uncanny. You push me to reach higher, telling me that I’m capable—strong, worthy, needed. In turn, you give me a place, a home in the vastness of your care. When I stand in your shadow, the rain of your sweetness cools every fever of fear and rage inside me. You are the brightest star in my sky, the reddest rose, the tallest sunflower, and I want your light to fall on me forever.

But as the seasons turned, those metaphors began to crowd me. The sweetest images grew heavy—sunflowers towering over me, roses too red, an abyss yawning at my feet. I found myself stepping off my own page to become the anchor of his world. The balance shifted: I was no longer just being seen, I was carrying him through his storms. Ten thousand times I urged him to reach for more, while I strained under the weight of ruptured trust and unspoken expectations.

My bright metaphors—once sparks of wonder—had cooled to embers that I couldn’t blow back to life. That was the point of no return: when I knew I could not carry his world and still find my own. The longer I carried that burden, the quieter I became. I stopped chatting with my family and friends, withdrawing behind my computer screen until it felt like a shield. I grew cold to him—my laughter a little more clipped, my smiles a little more forced—because every ounce of warmth had been spent holding up two hearts instead of one.

In mid-July, the city heat pressed down as heavily as the weight I’d taken on. I plastered a smile on for colleagues, but behind closed doors, the pressure returned: a toaster forced to burn too long, its circuits overloading. I clung to the soft fur of my silly teddy bear, searching for something innocent and unburdened, anything to remind me that joy still lived inside me.

And then, in the quiet that follows exhaustion, I felt a spark of recognition: I had been both mirror and anchor for so long that I’d lost sight of my reflection. It was time to let the fire cool, to set down the metaphors that no longer served me. I needed space to breathe, to become just me again—no mountains, no abyss, no borrowed warmth. So I closed that chapter and watched the pages settle. I carried forward the lessons of being seen—and, just as importantly, of carrying myself. I still feel the burn of every metaphor, like I’m blowing on the edges of old wounds—but I no longer bear their weight.