WhyOhY
These are the notes I kept for myself.
Just me. Nobody else.
For a guy.
For... two years.
Somehow I decided it was my job to analyze every little thing he did-or didn't do-and convince myself it meant something.
Spoiler: it didn't. Nothing happened. Ever.
And yet, here I am, keeping receipts in my head, tiny proofs of... literally nothing.
Yes, self, congratulations, you're obsessed. Totally normal. Definitely not crazy.
Two years of nothing - and counting...
Two years of almosts.
Two years of quietly hoping he might do... something. Anything.
A word. A glance. A gesture. Something I could finally point to and say, "aha! proof!"
But no.
Just air.
Just moments stretched thin until they almost meant something.
In my head.
And only in my head.
And the funny part?
The real question wasn't "does he like me?"
It was "why the hell do I care so much?"
Why do I let him live rent-free in my brain.
Quietly.
Insistently.
While doing literally nothing.
Why do I give him all this space, this attention, this... energy, for zero return?
Bravo, self. Truly, the ultimate one-sided rom-com.
Starring me. Obsessive me. Overthinking me.
And yet, somehow, I keep taking notes.
Because even if he doesn't notice... I notice. Always.