I don’t really know how to start this because I don’t even know what this feeling is. It’s not sharp enough to be heartbreak, but it’s not soft enough to ignore. It’s just there—this quiet kind of ache that sits somewhere between my chest and my throat, lingering, waiting to be named.
The truth is, I want your attention. I crave it in ways that feel embarrassing to admit, like I’m constantly reaching for something just out of reach. It’s not that you’re absent—you’re here, in the way you always have been. But I still want more. More of your words, more of your time, more of the way you look at me, even if it’s through a screen.
And the irony? We both agreed this is what we wanted. Freedom. Openness. The ability to explore without limitations. And I do want that—I like meeting new people, feeling new energy, losing myself in the thrill of something unfamiliar. But there’s a part of me, this stubborn, selfish part, that still wants to be your favorite. The one you think about when the room is quiet. The one who lingers in your mind even when someone else is right in front of you.
I don’t like admitting that. It feels small. It feels messy. But it’s true.
And then there’s the jealousy. It sneaks in when I hear about them—about the people who get to be near you, who get to touch you, who don’t have to wonder what it feels like to be wrapped up in you. It creeps in when someone casually mentions something about you that I didn’t know. And suddenly, I feel it crawling under my skin, this sharp reminder that no matter how much I want to, I can’t claim you.
But this is what we agreed on, right? No expectations. No demands. No ownership. And I don’t want to be possessive—I don’t. But the thought of being just another name in your story? Another person who gets to experience you but not keep you? It stings in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
And yet, even with all of that—the ache, the jealousy, the distance—I wouldn’t change a thing. Because despite the messiness, despite the moments that make my chest feel tight, there’s still you. And I would rather have this complicated, imperfect version of us than not have you at all.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t know where it’s going. But I know it matters.
And even if I never get to be your favorite, you’ll always be mine.
