How Long?
How long will I… desire him? Forget my words when I look at him?
The feeling isn't just something I could call longing; it’s more insidious, more relentless—a pull that settles in and refuses to be evicted. It’s simple, as natural as the air I breathe, and equally necessary. And yet, every time, it feels like a betrayal. Deja vu. I see him, and suddenly, I’m suspended, back in the same moment, the same place, with the same feeling I can’t seem to outgrow. But the strange part is, I don’t want him. Not really. It’s more like I want to remember what it felt like to be in his orbit, to be pulled in just close enough to feel the spark, the thrill, without ever touching.
There’s a bittersweetness to it all, too—something tragically beautiful in the way I keep meeting him over and over, even if only in memory. A repeating scene, like watching a movie I’ve already seen a dozen times, where I know exactly how it ends, but I can’t look away. In him, there’s an echo of every dream I ever had, every moment of softness I’d ever allowed myself. And somehow, he’s managed to haunt me without lifting a finger, by just existing somewhere in the background of my mind.
Every time I see him, my heart clutches at its chest, as if trying to brace itself. Words tumble in my mind, arranging and rearranging, but they never make it out. I’ve convinced myself it’s better this way, to keep this strange, silent reverie. Because maybe if I never speak, he’ll never know the absurd hold he has over me. It’s so simple. It’s stupid. The way he drifts in and out of my thoughts like a passing stranger, someone I never truly knew, never really held, but somehow still recognize with a pang that feels like I’ve lost something. Or maybe I never had it at all.
And there it is—that ache that I refuse to name. It’s less about wanting and more about the inevitable closeness of someone who, in truth, I barely know. It’s as if he’s more a sensation than a person, a feeling I keep replaying, not out of hope but out of habit. And I hate that, even as I want nothing from him, I somehow end up craving that simplicity, that bittersweet familiarity, like a melody that plays itself on repeat in the back of my mind, filling the quiet spaces where he doesn’t belong.
I can’t have him. And the worst part is that I don’t even want him. But something in me still clings to the version of myself that he sees, the person I am in his presence—wordless, caught in his gaze, feeling like a fool but too captivated to look away. Every encounter feels like a confession I’m too afraid to make, a story that never quite reaches its final page. It’s a cruel kind of comfort, really, this never-ending cycle, knowing exactly how it will go, that it will always leave me here, aching with something I refuse to let myself name.
So, how long will I feel this pull? The simplicity of seeing him, of him becoming a part of every unspoken hope I have, and knowing, somehow, he’s always just out of reach?
