On Being Ready

You tell me you are ready. Ready for more, ready to be pushed, ready to give me whatever I ask. I hear it often. I believe it rarely, and not because I doubt your wanting. Wanting and being ready are different things.

Ready is quiet. It does not announce itself in long messages at midnight. It shows in the small things: the task done without fuss, the answer given straight, the evening you kept free because I might need it.

A man who is ready does not need to tell me so. I can see it in how he waits. He does not fill the silence with promises. He simply stays where I put him until I come back for him.

When you rush to tell me you are ready, I know you are still hoping I will decide for you that you are. That is not a fault. It is only where you are. But it means we are not there yet, and pretending otherwise would be unkind to both of us.

I would rather wait a month for a man who is truly ready than spend a week with one who only says he is. The second costs me far more, and it costs him too.

So stop telling me. Show me instead, over days rather than minutes. Keep the small promises. Answer when I ask. Wait well when I do not.

One day I will look at you and simply know. I will not need to ask, and you will not need to say anything at all. That is what ready looks like, and it is worth the time it takes to get there.