Jonas

Jonas, 35, is having date night with his partner, Megan at a small Italian place they both love.
They’ve ordered wine. The food’s good. She’s telling him about her week and a conflict she had at work, something about a meeting that went sideways.

Jonas nods, but he’s distracted. She seems… off tonight. Not cold, exactly. Just a bit flat.
She’s not laughing as much. She didn’t compliment his shirt like she usually does. There’s a pause in the conversation, and she looks around the restaurant.

That’s all it takes. His chest tightens.

She’s bored. She’s over it. She’s starting to realise I’m not who she thought I was.

By the time they leave, Jonas is quieter. Irritated. Not even sure why. She asks if everything’s okay, and he shrugs, says he’s tired.

At home, she reaches for him and he pulls away.
The tension builds. A small comment turns into an argument. She says he’s hard to talk to sometimes.
And just like that, the ball drops.

She’s disappointed. I knew it wouldn’t last.

But Jonas didn’t learn this fear out of nowhere. Growing up, his mum used silence as punishment. He grew up believing: Love disappears when you disappoint people. So now, love doesn’t feel easy, it feels like it could slip away at any moment.

Jonas scans for signs. Overanalyzes tone. Braces around feedback. He tries to be perfect. Or distant. Or both. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares so much, it terrifies him.

Jonas isn’t trying to sabotage love. He’s trying to protect it, the only way he knows how. But protection built on fear isn’t the same as connection built on trust.

The work isn’t to be more lovable. It’s to notice when fear is writing the script and gently choosing another way to show up.