𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕
Fixation.
Anything I get more than mildly interested in, I become fixated. It's a strange, overwhelming sensation that takes hold of me, wrapping around my mind like a vine. I remember when I was five, the moment it all began. My cousin came over for a playdate, and in her hands was her favorite doll—a pretty little thing with golden hair that shimmered in the light. The way it glowed as she walked into my house was nothing short of enchanting.
That evening, as she wept over the loss of her cherished toy, I found myself curled up in my closet, clutching that beautiful doll, a satisfied smile playing on my lips as I reveled in the power of possessing something I needed to have. I can't sleep without it now; it feels like an extension of myself, a treasure that I have to keep.
As strong as my fixation is, it's also incredibly rare. I've dabbled in many interests, flitting from one obsession to the next, but very few have ignited that all-consuming desire to truly possess. Yet here I am again, swept away by the tide of fixation, and this time, it's not an object but a person.
A person—a far more complex and elusive prize than a doll. But that doesn't deter me. If anything, it fuels my determination. This is more than a mere interest; it feels like an obsession, a deep-seated need to know everything about him, to make him mine in a way that transcends mere ownership. The thought sends a thrill through me, a rush of excitement that I can't ignore.
Zylan Sinclair has captured my attention, and I can't shake the feeling that he's meant to be mine. Just one hour with him and I feel the desperate urge to possess him, body and soul, just as I once did that doll in my arms. This fixation is just the beginning, and I won't let it go until I've made him completely mine.
After class, I returned to my dorm, my heart racing with excitement and a hint of madness. I needed to learn more about him, to dive into his world, and shake it up like he did mine. I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and logged into the school database, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Zylan Sinclair," I murmured, watching the search results populate the screen. My heart raced as I clicked through the pages, eager to uncover everything I could about him. His office hours appeared, and I quickly jotted them down, along with his contact information. Not enough. I needed more.
I opened a new tab and typed his name into a search engine, my curiosity burning brighter with each click. The results flooded in, revealing a plethora of information about the man who had captivated me so completely. Zylan was not just a professor; he was a renowned psychologist, respected in his field and celebrated for his controversial ideas. The thrill of discovering his brilliance sent a shiver down my spine—a mind that challenged conventions and provoked deep thought.
But as I read, my frustration grew. There was so much information, yet it still felt like a veil shrouding the man I craved to understand. Articles praised his groundbreaking research on the human psyche, exploring topics that left most people uneasy. I reveled in the fact that he was unafraid to push boundaries, to explore the darker sides of human behavior, but I needed to know what made him tick. I needed to see into his thoughts, his motivations, the very core of his nature.
As I scrolled through the images of him attending award functions and conferences, I felt a pang of longing in my chest. His tall, muscular frame, the way he carried himself with an air of confidence, and that intense gaze that seemed to pierce through the façade of those around him—each photograph only fueled my determination.
I couldn't help but print them out, my heart racing with each click of the printer. But even as I did, a nagging sense of dissatisfaction bubbled beneath the surface. I had these snapshots, these glimpses into his life, but they were mere fragments. They didn't capture the essence of who he was.
Once I had a small collection of his images, I pinned them to the wall in front of my bed, arranging them like trophies of my growing fixation. There he was, Zylan Sinclair, framed in moments of recognition and success. Each picture felt like a window into his life, and I was more than willing to peer through, to study the details, to lose myself in the mystery of who he was.
I stepped back to admire my handiwork, a sense of satisfaction washing over me. Yet, as I gazed at the collage of Zylan staring back at me, I felt that familiar pang of frustration. I wanted to know everything about him—the way he thought, what made him laugh, the secrets hidden behind those piercing eyes. This fascination consumed me, and I couldn't help but wonder how much deeper it could go.
Regardless, I would have him.
