nessnote
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somewhere between brainrot and peak wisdom i post a lot about my current obsessions (which change way too often (lowkey a photo dump as well)
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there's this one person texting me on anon for quite some time but i'm unable to answer you cuz your link is disabled man
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and it comes over me again, that stupid fluttering, the mind running ahead of itself, tripping on its own feet, thinking of him without wanting to think, no, not wanting at all, it just happens, unasked, as if the thought of him has a life of its own crawling under my skin, and i don’t know why, god, i don’t know why because nothing has happened, nothing ever has, nothing ever will perhaps, and yet the memory (if you can call it memory) of that eye contact, that tiny flicker, no more than light glancing off glass, keeps returning, circling, an orbit i didn’t choose, spinning me, spinning me, and i’m so tired of being spun.
and then i hear myself, my voice, or what tries to be my voice when he’s around, that stuttering, collapsing thing that isn’t mine, never mine, and i hate it, i hate how the words fall out of me like broken steps, scrambling over each other, nonsense spilling everywhere, a whole stream of rubbish i don’t even mean, like my tongue and brain have stopped speaking to each other, and i know i must sound ridiculous, i know he must have heard something, must have thought something, what? i don’t know, i don’t want to know.
and why him, why him of all people, why this sudden ache in the ribs, the little shameful thrill in the chest, the sinking feeling too, heavy as wet wool, because i want him, yes, i admit it to myself like an idiot, i want him, and wanting feels like walking into the sea without knowing how to swim, each step a bit heavier, each thought dragging behind me, a long tired tail of oh god oh god don’t look at me but also why won’t he look at me.
and this is the part that stings, the stupid bit of truth lodged in the throat, i am me. hopelessly, embarrassingly, unmistakably me. the girl who thinks too much and speaks too little or too much at the wrong time, the girl whose hands shake and whose sentences break halfway, the girl who cannot for the life of her believe that someone like him who is calm, self-contained, perfect, would turn to look, at someone like me, always tangled in my own head, a messy drawer of thoughts i keep failing to close.
and i don’t know if he notices me, i don’t know if i’m just another passing face in the corridor, one more shadow brushing past his shoulder, and the thought should free me but instead it tightens, because how pathetic is it, this whole silent storm over someone who has never heard my voice properly, never seen my real expression, not the clumsy one i wear when my nerves eat me alive.
but still it goes on inside me, this confusion that spreads like ink in water, staining everything it touches, and i keep asking myself why why why, but the question folds into itself like all the others do, collapsing before i can answer, and i am left holding nothing except the breath he never asked from me and the wanting i can’t seem to stop.
