Peaking, aren’t you?

 

Damn it, kid. Damn it!!!

I called out into the air again, like a fool throwing pebbles into the sea, waiting for some kind of ripple to reach me. It’s ridiculous, really, the way I try to fold him into the corners of my mind, like he’s some half-finished poem I can’t leave alone. He doesn’t know it, but he’s here. Lingering in the quiet spaces of my thoughts, a stubborn thread of smoke that refuses to clear. And maybe I’m just drunk on the idea of him watching, standing at some distant edge, like a stray star in a sky I don’t understand.

It’s not love—not even close. It’s not even a crush, but something itchier, like a splinter under the skin. He’s a question that doesn’t need answering, a riddle I didn’t ask for but can’t help trying to solve. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t belong in my world, not really. He’s so bloody different, somewhat playful and careless in that “all neon confidence and cheap dopamine” kinda way, you know? I’m quiet, sharper around the edges, but somehow he’s slipped through a crack I didn’t know was there. And now I’m caught in this ridiculous loop, hoping some cosmic coincidence will shove us into the same space again, just to see what he’d do.

•••••••••

So, I call out again, not because I expect an answer, but because I know someone’s listening. Words have a way of slipping into cracks, of curling around ears that weren’t meant to hear them. This isn’t about love or longing or any of those messy clichés. It’s about the weight of a presence—yours—lingering just far enough away to be maddening. Watching, maybe. Pretending not to notice, but let’s not kid ourselves. I see you.

It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? How you’ve managed to take up space without even trying. You’re like an itch in the back of my mind, a puzzle I didn’t ask for but can’t help solving. You weren’t supposed to matter, not like this. And yet, here we are—or at least I am, turning you over and over like a song stuck on repeat. You’re not special, not really, but somehow you’ve made yourself unforgettable. That’s a talent, I’ll give you that.

I wonder if you’ve caught on yet. The way you hover, just out of focus. The way your silence feels like an answer in itself. Maybe it’s all in my head. Or maybe you’re doing it on purpose. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, planted firmly in a place you shouldn’t be. And if I’m calling into a void, so be it. I’ve always liked the sound of my own voice, especially when I know someone else is listening.

And let’s not pretend you aren’t. If you’re reading this—and I know you are—then you’ve already stepped into it. These words have found you, whether you wanted them to or not. They’re crawling under your skin, scratching at your ribs, making you wonder if you’ve been caught. Spoiler alert: you have. You’re not nearly as subtle as you think.

There’s a certain satisfaction in this dance, don’t you think? The circling, the almost-but-not-quite. You, sitting there on the edge, thinking you’re untouchable. Me, tossing words into the wind, knowing exactly where they’ll land. It’s not desperation—it’s power. It’s the electric pull of something unspoken, something you can’t quite ignore. Admit it: you like it.

And you can keep pretending, keep playing your little game of indifference. But we both know the truth. These words? They’re not going anywhere. You can try to shake them off, but they’ll stick. They’ll follow you into the quiet, hum in the back of your mind when you think you’ve forgotten. That’s the beauty of it—you can’t.

So what now? Do you keep lurking in the shadows, peaking but never stepping closer? Or do you finally give in, let the tension snap, and say something? I’m not asking for much, just a flicker, a sign that you’re as alive in this as I am. Because if you’re still reading, you are. That’s the part you won’t admit. That’s the part I already know.

You think you’re clever, don’t you? Watching from a distance, letting the words wash over you without leaving a mark. But here’s the thing: they already have. They’ve already wrapped themselves around you, taken up space in your mind. You’re carrying them with you now, whether you want to or not.

So here’s your move: stay on the edges or step into the light. Keep watching, keep pretending, or let yourself be seen. Either way, this moment is yours. The words are yours. And whether you respond or not, you’ll hear them echo long after you’ve stopped reading. That’s the trick of it, isn’t it? Once you’ve peaked, you can’t unsee.

•••••••

Get up, kid. You’ve been sleeping too long.

*yawns 

•••••••••••

Until next time

love

S