Irrational
There were nights where the darkness felt too heavy, where thoughts of Rosie consumed me, fierce and relentless. My mind was a whirlpool, spiraling down into memories and what-ifs, an endless loop of regret and longing. I’d sit in the quiet of my room, staring at the shadows on the walls, thinking about all the ways I’d failed her, all the things I’d left unsaid.
I thought about love the way I thought about falling—something inevitable, something that hurt and yet, somehow, something I wanted. My mind latched onto Rosie, clinging to every memory, every whispered word, like she was the only anchor in a storm.
But it was dangerous, this love. It had started as something soft and sweet, but it had grown into an obsession, a dark and twisted need that swallowed me whole. I knew it wasn’t healthy, knew that this kind of love was like holding onto a knife by the blade, but I couldn’t let go.
It was that night I almost confessed. My phone in hand, fingers hovering over her name, a single message drafted but never sent: *I love you, Rosie. More than you know, more than I probably should.* But I deleted it, the words too heavy, too raw.
Instead, I held onto my silence, my love buried deep, festering. It was irrational, I knew. But it was the only way I knew how to love her—quietly, painfully, like a thorn I was afraid to pull out.
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everything platonic ✓
ChickLiti tried my best to describe her resemblance with art. she did not believe me. she believed those days when crowds whispered around the halls; she believed her mind which told her that she was not capable of love; she believed in the dreadful night a...
