Uh-oh i'm falling in love... oh-no i'm falling in love again.

Hey there, STranger...

I started texting this new boy this week.

 

And I don’t know how to say this without sounding completely delusional, but it feels like something shifted. Not in a big dramatic way. More like a soft, cosmic hum—like the background static of my life tuned itself into something smoother, glossier. More… TS:  Midnights.

 

Not the lyrics, necessarily. The sound. The vibe. The dreamy purple-hued haze of it all. That cotton-candy-sky emotional tone Taylor captures when you’re staring at the ceiling wondering if the butterflies in your stomach are joy or a warning. That’s what he feels like. Texting him feels like fun. Not just “this is a nice conversation” fun. But glinting mirrorball fun. The kind of fun where your brain suddenly starts narrating your life again like it used to. Like maybe the plot picked up where it left off.

 

He’s 29.

Which, normally, I’d raise an eyebrow at.

But he’s giving Pedro Pascal with a Paul Mescal emotional register, so it’s fine. Better than fine. It’s cinematic. Like I’m being led somewhere quiet and important. Like he speaks in well-placed ellipses and parentheses. Like every text is a page from a book I didn’t know I was in.

 

He’s smart. Into politics. Taller than me. Emotionally articulate in that unassuming, “I’ve done the work” kind of way. Masculine, but soft around the edges. Nerdy in the way that says, I read Wikipedia articles in bed and know the name of at least one constellation. It’s giving lunar. It’s giving I see you and I read the footnotes of your soul.

 

But here’s the thing—and maybe this is the real thesis—he’s making me feel like I might actually want to be known. Like, properly. Not just seen. Known.

 

And that’s terrifying.

 

Because deep down, I still feel like the Anti-Hero.

Like I’m looking at something beautiful and slowly building a cage around it, just to prove it’ll leave.

“Hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.”

That lyric wasn’t supposed to be a prophecy, and yet—here we are.

Do I deserve love?

Or am I just addicted to the idea of it, the aesthetic of it, the perfume trail it leaves behind?

 

I don’t even know this man.

Let’s be clear.

We’ve never met.

And yet something in me is convinced he already understands some part of me that I’ve been too afraid to speak aloud.

It’s weird. But the good kind of weird.

The snow on the beach kind of weird.

The “how are you inside my head if we haven’t even made eye contact” kind of weird.

 

And maybe I’m not looking for anything serious. Maybe I’m just open. Open like a window cracked during a storm—unbothered, but listening.

I refuse to chase love.

I won’t.

I never will.

But if it knocks softly and asks to come in, I’ll make tea. I’ll light candles. I’ll let it stay awhile.

 

This boy—it’s not even about him.

It’s about what he unlocks.

It’s about the way my fingers hover over my phone longer than they used to.

It’s about the feeling of being potentially witnessed.

Of being possibly chosen.

 

And that’s a high no drug can touch.

 

I feel like a masc Lorde right now.

Like if Melodrama and Midnights had a strange little queer lovechild with too many thoughts and a hunger for meaning.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe I am the point.

 

Life is good.

Not perfect. Not even stable. But soft and weird and waiting.

And yes—waiting is exhausting. But it’s also hopeful.

And maybe that’s all love is: choosing to hope again, even when you’ve rewritten the ending in your head a thousand different ways.

 

So I wait.

And I write.

And I wonder if maybe—just maybe—I’m someone worth loving, too.

 

Anyway. My mind is amazing.

Bye.