Its when you can’t get someone out of your head even if you want to. When everything you see and do reminds you of that person. When you doze off in class just to think about them. When you doodle pictures of their various facial features in your notebook during class.
It’s also very creepy, unrequited love. It makes you feel like a stalker. Finding pictures of them and being unable to tear your eyes away. Looking at their picture in your yearbook so often that you have the page number memorized… But you’ll never admit it. Maybe not even to yourself.
And you remember everywhere you’ve seen them around. You memorize everywhere they hang out and smile when you pass by, even when they’re not there.
It’s almost like having an imaginary lover. You make up all sorts of fantasies in your head, and a whole network of of secret thoughts. You even dream about them. And yet none of it’s real. They don’t love you back. And because of that, you always feel guilty, just a tad bit, when you think about them. Like you’re mentally raping their mere existence.
You fall in love with their personality. You fall in love with their peculiar habits and reactions and quirks. You fall in love with the way they talk and the way they act and the way they look and the way they move and every day, you learn something new about them, and every day, you just fall deeper in love with them.
But they don’t love you.
And you start to hate yourself. When you look at them, their appearance grates at your heart like sandpaper. You start to hate yourself for thinking about them all the time, and you hate yourself because you can’t get over them. You hate yourself because you’re a coward and you can’t confess your love, even if something good might come of it.
You hate yourself because of how you feel when they don’t talk to you. Even when you know it means nothing.
You tear your hair out wondering what they think of you. You torture yourself thinking maybe they hate you, maybe they don’t care about you, maybe you creep them out, maybe they’ve noticed how obsessed with them you are.
But there’s always that tiny glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, they love you too.
And perhaps that’s the worst thing of all.