This feeling is charging me rent

I don’t know the exact moment you got under my skin. There was no dramatic music or slow-motion scene, just this slow leak of you sneaking into my system. One day you were just another person trying to survive corporate purgatory, and the next I’m scanning rooms like some sad, lovesick meerkat hoping you’re there. And then you opened up, really opened up. Not the cute “I’m quirky” kind of vulnerable, but the real stuff. What happened to your dad. Your family. Your trauma. The parts of yourself you bury under exhaustion and whatever emotional duct tape keeps you moving. The things you swore no one at work knew, and then suddenly you were handing them to me like, “Here, hold this mess for a second, I trust you.” And I did, because apparently that’s the role I’ve been playing without realizing it.

We’re “coworkers,” technically. Sure. Let’s pretend that explains anything. Completely normal coworker behavior: emotional confessionals, late night calls, inside jokes no one else would even remotely understand, and the kind of chemistry HR would build a slideshow warning people about. When we’re in sync, we’re an unstoppable duo, like Bonnie and Clyde if they carried badges, solved crises, and complained about the cafeteria food instead of robbing banks. And then there’s whatever this thing is between us, the flirting, the tension, the almosts. It feels like the universe tossed us in the same room and said, “Watch these two idiots dance around the obvious for fun.” And we haven’t disappointed.

They say satisfaction is the death desire, maybe that's why we keep up this dance, because whatever this is feels dangerously alive. Like if desire had a pulse, mine would be doing burpees and asking for a medal. And here’s the inconvenient truth: if you ever gave me a real opening, I’d take it. I’d show up on time like a respectable adult.

But that’s not where we are, so I’m left with this slow-burning ache that refuses to leave, no matter how many logical arguments I throw at it.

This isn’t a confession. Just a place to dump the truth before it starts charging me rent. You’ll never read this. And maybe that’s for the best. Or maybe this is fucking limerence and that blows.