Too Close, Too Soon

By Ryan | AWRYTE |

“You have serious boundary issues.”

That’s something I’ve been told more than once. And not just by strangers. Friends. Teachers. Partners. Therapists. I didn’t always understand what they meant. I wasn’t trying to be invasive. I just… felt connected.  And when I feel connected, I lean in.

That’s the part people don’t see. They only notice the intensity. The frequency. The emotional weight. But not the intention behind it. Not the heart of it.

I’m autistic. That means my wiring is different—but not broken. It means I experience connection differently. It means that when I finally find someone I feel safe with, I pour. I don’t drip. I don’t pace. I flood.

It’s not that I don’t understand boundaries. It’s that I grew up in a world where social norms were never explained to me in a way that made sense. And so, I had to guess. I had to learn by trial and error. Usually error.

There’s a rhythm to most friendships that seems to work for other people: small talk, light sharing, space, back-and-forth, slow progression. But that’s not how my friendships usually work. I either feel it immediately, or I don’t. I either trust you completely, or I’m still pretending. There’s not a lot of middle.

When I was younger, I thought this made me too much. Too needy. Too intense. I was always the girl who sent the second text when the first didn’t get a reply. The one who stayed up all night thinking I said something wrong. The one who got told, “We’re not that close,” when I thought we were.

But here’s what I know now:

That intensity wasn’t desperation.

It was recognition.

Autistic people aren’t wired to casually float through social space.

When we find someone we resonate with, we want closeness. Right away.

It’s not about control.

It’s not about insecurity.

It’s about feeling seen for the first time in a long time—and wanting to keep that feeling alive.

But it’s hard, because most of the time, that intensity isn’t matched.

And when it’s not matched, it’s misread.

As clingy. As overbearing. As inappropriate.

Which means we get ghosted. A lot.

Or blocked.

Or dropped without warning.

And every time, it feels like confirmation:

You’re doing friendship wrong.

You’re too much.

You ruined it.

What people don’t see is the way that loss spirals in our bodies.

How hard it is to bounce back.

We don’t just miss the person—we question every interaction.

We re-read messages, replay moments, rehearse apologies we’ll never get to deliver.

We love deeply.

Which means we grieve deeply, too.

This is part of what makes friendship such a vulnerable place for autistic people.

It’s not that we lack empathy.

It’s that we feel it in surround sound. 

And when that connection is cut, it’s not a paper cut—it’s a tear.

Looking back, I see how often I was accused of being “too forward” or “too trusting.”

And maybe I was.

But it wasn’t because I didn’t care about boundaries.

It was because I didn’t know where they were. So I followed my instincts.

I followed the feeling.

Sometimes it worked.

Most times, it didn’t.

But I refuse to call that a flaw anymore.

That part of me—the part that connects fast, that goes deep, that texts back quickly, that remembers tiny details you forgot you shared—that part is love in motion.

That part is care.

If you’re someone who has ever said yes too fast, or shared too much, or got your hopes up too high with a new friend… you’re not alone.

You’re not broken.

You’re probably just like me.

And if you’re someone who’s been on the receiving end of that kind of closeness from someone neurodivergent—try to see the meaning under the motion.

We’re not crossing lines to disrespect you.

We’re just skipping the surface because we’re built for depth.

AWRYTE isn’t just about surviving the world. It’s about surviving ourselves in a world that doesn’t always get us.

I’ve lost friendships because of this pattern.

But I’ve also found lifelong ones—the kind where we both leaned in too fast, and it didn’t scare us.

The kind where the connection was mutual. And those are the friendships that anchor me now.

The ones that don’t punish me for my extra.

The ones that meet me in the middle, without asking me to shrink.

We don’t need to change how we love.

We just need more people who can hold it.

We are AWRYTE.