Walls.
It wasn't a conscious thing that I committed myself to doing; it was just something that ended up happening. People tend to get offended when I pushed them away, but it was for their own good. The people around me tend to get hurt, no matter how much I try to protect them.
As a result of far too many disastrous friend and companions, I decided to just stop. I didn't hurt anybody by keeping a distance, and there was no risk of me being put into a situation where I would break. I surrounded myself in walls, layers of personalities and traits that, when peeled back, revealed who I was. I didn't let anybody close enough to be able to tell.
Every once in a while, there's a persistent one. Somebody who latches on and will do anything to unravel my cocoon. They're the ones who usually end up taking it personally when I tell them that I don't want to be around them, and I don't want to be friends. I don't have friends. Friends are dangerous and unpredictable and an avoidable risk that I chose not to involve myself in.
This system of walls, of layers, of cocoons worked until I met him. He wouldn't stop pushing and tugging and chipping away at the barriers I had built until he broke through a few, and saw what I was trying to do. I had waited for him to be disgusted, to leave and not come back; the hole that was opening in my chest surprised me when I thought of him never trying to get me to smile again, or making a fool out of himself just to hear me laugh. I ignored it.
He surprised me, though. When he got a few layers in and dug to deep, and saw that I wasn't just some anti-social human being, that I was cold for a reason, he kept coming. He told me that I was strong, that I was stronger than he would ever be. I had ignored him, thinking that he was being cruel; if I had actually thought about it, I would have seen that he was never the type to be cruel: He would never mock me for anything that I did, unnecessary or otherwise.
He would tell me that I was brave to try to keep people safe, but I was weak in that I wouldn't let anybody in. Accusing me of cowardice, he insisted that I accept him, and that he knew what he was getting into, and the risks, and that it was his choice whether or not he wanted to be my friend. I disagreed, and we had the worst fight that I've ever had.
After I had stormed away and locked my door so that he couldn't follow me, I realized that I had failed. I had let him in. My walls, the guards that I had so painstakingly built around myself had crumbled and fallen without my notice. I realized that pushing him away was hurting both of us, and I hadn't been able to protect either one of us from pain; I had gone so far off my path to cause it.
When I realized what I had done, I ran to him. I had begged for forgiveness, even though I knew that I didn't deserve it. Again surprising me, he simply told me that there was nothing to forgive. He understood why I did what I did, and the reasoning behind my distance. And he accepted it, accepted me.
I still have walls; they'll never come down. They're permanent, and I'm grateful for them. They've kept me safe over the years. He changed me, though. He didn't try to tear down the walls, he knew that they were necessary, to hold me together as much as keep people out. But he did carve himself a door.