It’s not you—

it’s the idea of you.

When I don’t actually know anything about you, when there exists no reason whatsoever to believe that we are compatible at any level, when nothing has even happened between us, why the heavy heart? Why the gut-wrenching feeling? Why the incessant daydream?

Irrespective of reason, irrespective of how patently idiotic these feelings are, irrespective of how much sheer willpower I possess to resist this feeling, this weight on my heart persists. Nothing I do or say has any effect on how I feel whatsoever.

There mere anticipation of love—the momentous conception of the thought of possibility in this restless heart—however completely and utterly detached from any facet of reality, is enough to wreak such havoc in this mind of mine.

I didn’t choose to feel this way.

But perhaps the most confounding question of all:

If I did have a choice, would I still choose to feel this way about you?