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Diary Entry: Not for Her Eyes

My phone lights up and it’s her again. Just a message. Just a joke. Just a photo of something stupid she saw. It should be nothing. But it isn’t.

I tell myself it’s casual. Two people who work together, who laugh, who stay in touch. But the truth is, every time her name appears on my screen, it feels like my chest caves in. I reread her messages until the words blur. I answer too fast. I pretend I’m not addicted to the tiny glow of her attention.

She doesn’t know what she does to me. Or maybe she does and she’s cruel enough to enjoy it. I can’t tell. Blizzard is free in ways I’ll never be. She belongs everywhere and nowhere. And me… I just want her to belong with me.

So I wrestle with myself. I say it’s just texting. I say it doesn’t matter. But then I catch myself smiling at my screen like an idiot at three in the morning, and I know I’m lying. I’ve always lied. To others. To myself. But never this badly.

What terrifies me most isn’t losing her. It’s that I’ll never be brave enough to tell her that every word she sends me feels like oxygen. That without her, I’d choke.

I keep typing and deleting. She’ll never read half of what I want to say. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe the only way to keep her close is to never let her know just how far I’ve already fallen.

She doesn’t belong to me. That’s the part that eats me alive. I see her on stages, in photos, in the spotlight where everyone wants a piece of her. Smiling at strangers, laughing with people who don’t deserve to hear her laugh. And I sit here, fists clenched, pretending I’m fine with sharing even a glimpse of her.

I’m not.

Every message she sends me feels like proof that she’s mine in some secret way. Private. Off the record. I can’t stand the idea of someone else trying to hold her attention. Some guy leaning too close, thinking her smile is for him. It isn’t. It’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.