There's a special kind of madness that comes from watching someone bask in the glow of the world — laughing, dancing, living their dream — while you sit at the edge of your sanity, wondering if you're the punchline of a cosmic joke.
Julian Hart.
International heartthrob. Artistic genius. Living proof that the universe favors the oblivious.
While I'm choking on my own emotions, barely keeping it together, he's out there signing autographs and charming interviewers with that lopsided grin like he hasn't signed a soul bond with a stranger unraveling at the seams.
I shouldn't know his every expression.
I shouldn't be analyzing every post, every performance, wondering if somewhere beneath it all, a flicker of recognition sparks.
I shouldn't be doing any of this.
And yet.
There I was this morning. Watching him headline another show. Smile bright, heart free, eyes—
God, those eyes.
I slammed my phone face down on the table before it could crush me again.
I had bills.
I had deadlines.
I had a body that ached from working shifts that barely paid enough for the meds keeping me upright.
I didn't have time for this.
I didn't have time for a bond that clawed at my insides like a living thing.
I didn't have time for longing that showed up uninvited, curling in my chest like a slow, burning ember I couldn't put out.
I didn't have time for the universe's stupid plotlines.
I spiraled.
I spiraled through resentment, through aching helplessness, through a hurricane of "why me"s and "what now"s.
I anchored.
I anchored in the tiny moments — the soft hum of a kettle, the weight of a friend's text, the feel of cool sheets when the night closed in too tight.
I spiraled again.
Because this isn't some fairytale love story.
This is me, raw and ragged, trying to stay afloat while the man at the other end of this bond lives blissfully unaware.
And it's not even his fault.
How do you blame someone for forgetting what he was never given the chance to remember?
How do you blame the stars for aligning in a way that broke you first?
I sat on the floor again.
Because sometimes, when the world spins too fast, the floor feels like the only safe place left.
"I hate this," I whispered.
I hated the waiting.
I hated the aching.
I hated the stupid hope that clung like ivy, no matter how many times I tried to rip it off.
But most of all…
I hated that deep, quiet place inside me that still believed.
Believed that one day, maybe — he'd remember.
And God help him…
Because when that day comes…
He'll have a whole storm waiting for him.