The Relationships That Almost Feed You

A reflection in nourishment, confusion, and the quiet courage of standing up.

Shadow Poopy squinted at the table.
“She’s still sitting there.”

AnuBel adjusted her lantern, its glow steady and warm.
“She’s waiting for the entrée.”

Shadow Poopy sniffed the air.
“There is no entrée.”

“I know,” AnuBel said gently.

“Then why doesn’t she leave?”

AnuBel’s wings shimmered softly.
“Because she tasted something that almost fed her.”

Shadow Poopy snorted.
“Almost doesn’t nourish.”

“No,” AnuBel replied. “But it confuses.”

Not every relationship is meant to be a full meal.

Some are appetizers.
Light. Sparked with possibility.
They awaken your senses.

They introduce you to something new.
You enjoy them for what they are.
But you don’t build your life on them.

Some are dessert.
Sweet. Magnetic. Intoxicating.
Full of chemistry and sparkle.
You savor them.
But you don’t expect them to sustain you.

And then there are the confusing ones.
The ones that begin like an appetizer --
with the promise of an entrée.

There are hints of depth.
Moments of nourishment.
Future language.
Occasional substance.

Just enough to believe the full meal is coming.

But the entrée never arrives.

So you sit at the table…
still hungry.

Not because the other person is cruel.
Not because you are unworthy.
But because confusion feels like hope.
And hope can keep you seated far longer than hunger ever would.

Shadow Poopy tapped the empty plate with one small foot. “She knows,” he muttered.

“Yes,” said AnuBel. “Her body knows.”
“Then why doesn’t she stand?”

AnuBel lifted the lantern a little higher.
“Because standing means choosing clarity over promise.”
Shadow Poopy softened.
“That’s harder.”

“Yes,” AnuBel agreed. “But it’s cleaner.”

The most powerful moment in any relationship is not when you realize you are hungry.
It is when you stand up.

When you recognize what is actually being served.
When you stop mistaking intensity for nourishment.
When you release the idea that something deeper is “about to arrive” — and instead trust what is present.

Standing is not dramatic.
It is quiet.
It is regulated.
It is sovereign.

The woman pushed her chair back gently.
No anger.
No resentment.
No slammed doors.
Just recognition.

Shadow Poopy hopped down from the table.
“What now?” he asked.

“Now,” said AnuBel, her lantern glowing in the doorway, “she walks toward what feeds her.”

The woman stepped into the light.
Not to escape shadow --
but to carry its lesson with her.
Shadow Poopy followed.

Because what almost fed you is not your enemy.
It is compost.
It teaches you the difference between sweetness and sustenance.
Between stimulation and nourishment.
Between promise and provision.

Maturity is not learning to hate the table.
It is learning to leave it without bitterness.

And sovereignty is knowing you would rather eat alone
than live on crumbs.

AnuBel did not reach for her.
She simply held the lantern.

And in that steady light,
the woman could finally see:

She was never starving.
She was simply waiting at the wrong table.
And she no longer needed to wait.

If this reflection stirred something in you, AnuBel's world is a place where shadow becomes compost and clarity becomes creation.

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