Limerence - by Emilia's Pen

‎You arrived quietly—‎not through my front door,‎but through the crack‎between curiosity and loneliness.‎‎I never handed you the keys.‎‎Yet somehow,‎you moved into my thoughts,‎rearranged the furniture,‎painted the walls your favourite colour,‎and convinced my heart‎to start paying rent.‎‎Now every silence‎wears your voice.‎‎Every notification‎pretends to be you.‎‎I have memorised‎the mathematics of your replies;‎how three minutes means busy,‎twelve means uncertain,‎and twenty...‎twenty means I've begun‎inventing stories‎that never happened.‎‎I read between commas,‎searched for affection‎hidden inside full stops,‎mistook delayed replies‎for carefully crafted messages‎that only existed‎inside my own mind.‎‎Love,‎they tell me,‎is patient.‎‎But this isn't love.‎‎Love breathes.‎This suffocates.‎‎Love gives.‎This takes.‎‎Love is a home.‎This is a prison‎that somehow convinced me‎I was free.‎‎You have become‎a country‎I visit every hour‎without ever leaving my room.‎‎My happiness‎clocks in‎with your attention‎and clocks out‎with your absence.‎‎The weather inside me‎depends entirely‎on whether your name‎lights up my screen.‎‎How frightening it is‎to discover‎that another human being‎can accidentally‎become the landlord‎of your peace.‎‎Every morning,‎I evict you.‎‎Every night,‎you return,‎carrying flowers‎that only I can see.‎‎The cruelest part?‎‎You have no idea‎you live here.‎‎You don't know‎that I've memorised‎the sound of your name‎without ever saying it aloud.‎‎You don't know‎that I've built futures‎from conversations‎that never happened.‎‎You don't know‎that I've mistaken possibility‎for promise.‎‎Somewhere‎between hoping‎and hallucinating,‎admiration‎became imprisonment.‎‎And hope—‎hope laid the first brick.‎‎It whispered,‎"Maybe tomorrow."‎‎Tomorrow became weeks.‎‎Weeks became months.‎‎And the walls grew higher.‎‎Until I could no longer tell‎whether I wanted you...‎or simply wanted‎to be free of wanting you.‎‎Perhaps that is what limerence is.‎‎Not love.‎‎Not obsession.‎‎But a house‎built by hope,‎occupied by fantasy,‎and mistaken‎for home.‎‎I don't want you.‎‎I want release.‎‎Because the cruelest prisons‎are never built by another person.‎‎They're built by hope,‎locked from the inside,‎and guarded‎by a version of someone‎who never truly existed.<img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/file_000000008688824386869e1cb1addda5.png"/>

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