The Stranger I Like (2.9)

 Swanity

-one sided devotion 

He caught feelings for me — and now I’m stuck in this twisted fairytale where I’m the villain without even trying to be.

Recently, I got a proposal from a guy who, by all means, seemed like he was crafted by the universe’s "nice guy" department. He wasn’t just good; he was the kind of rare good that feels like finding a four-leaf clover in a field of weeds. Humble, genuine — the type of guy who probably rescues stray puppies on his way to work and calls his mom just to ask if she ate. He made efforts too — the kind that weren’t loud or performative, but quietly undeniable. The kind of gestures that belong in those painfully romantic, rain-soaked movie scenes where the guy stands there, drenched, holding flowers and his heart in his hands. Except this wasn’t a movie — it was real, and he was standing right in front of me, offering something most people spend a lifetime searching for. Something honest. Something pure.

The problem? My heart had already unpacked its bags, kicked off its shoes, and settled into a place that felt like home — a place that wasn’t him. No matter how many beautifully adorned guest rooms he built, with windows that promised warmth and doors that swore safety, I wasn’t leaving the one place where my soul had already hung its favorite pictures and memorized the creaks in the floorboards.

When I told him no, his voice trembled, just enough to twist a knife somewhere deep in my chest. "Why not me?" he asked, his words soft but heavy, like they carried the weight of every unreciprocated feeling. And I had nothing to offer him that wasn’t cruel or unfair. Because the truth is, he wasn’t the problem. He was a masterpiece. But even a masterpiece can feel out of place in the wrong gallery. He wasn’t mine. My heart wasn’t some vacant apartment waiting for a tenant, no "For Rent" sign hanging in the window. It had already signed an unbreakable, lifelong lease — one without a safety clause or an exit plan — with someone else.

And that’s when irony hit me — not like a gentle nudge, but like a freight train with no brakes. I realized I’m living the exact pain he is. The person I love — the one I’d rearrange constellations for, the one I’d burn my own comfort to keep warm — doesn’t feel the same way about me either. My love is uninvited. It’s like showing up to an exclusive party, unlisted and unnoticed, holding a gift wrapped in hope, only to realize the door isn’t locked, but it’s not open for you either.

Loving someone who doesn’t love you back isn’t just painful — it’s purgatory. It’s like trying to hold a shadow, arms outstretched, only to feel the cold emptiness where warmth should be. It’s watching the sun rise in a sky that never turns to meet you. You reach, you ache, you hope — but the truth stays the same: some hearts are fortresses that weren’t built with your key in mind.

But I’m not ashamed. I don’t regret loving him, not for a second. My love isn’t a bargain, and it isn’t waiting on permission. It’s a force of nature like gravity — silent, constant, and inevitable. It doesn’t ask to be returned. It exists because it must, the way the ocean kisses the shore, over and over, even when the sand doesn’t ask for it.

I could never string the new guy along with false hope. He deserves more — someone who looks at him the way I look at the person I love — like he hand-painted the sky and taught the stars how to glow. He deserves a love that doesn’t hesitate, a heart that races toward him without second thought. And no matter how kind he is, no matter how much he deserves the world, I can’t be cruel enough to pretend he’s my sun when my heart still rises and sets for someone else.

And maybe  that’s exactly how the person I love feels about me. Maybe he looks at me and silently hopes I find my way to someone who can give me the kind of love he knows he can’t. Maybe he’s letting me go, the way I’m trying to let this new guy go — not because he doesn’t care, but because he thinks I deserve a love that doesn’t hurt.

But here’s where my heart and logic decide to go their separate ways — because even with all this clarity, I can’t stop loving him. And truthfully? I don’t want to. Love, to me, isn’t a transaction. It’s not "I’ll love you if you love me back." It’s "I’ll love you — even if you never do." He doesn’t have to choose me for my heart to remain his. Even if I’m just a fleeting thought in his day, while he’s the plot twist, the prologue, and the epilogue of my entire story, I still choose him. Every time.

I’ve stopped texting him as much — not because I want to, but because I’m terrified of becoming a burden. I swallow my words, even when I find the perfect, painfully relatable reel that practically screams, "This is us!" But sometimes, against my better judgment, I send one anyway. Not because I expect a grand confession — but because I’m desperate for proof that he still sees me, even if it’s just for a second. It’s pathetic, I know — living off emotional crumbs — but when you’re starving for someone’s attention, even a ‘seen’ feels like a five-course meal.

His old voice notes have become my comfort playlist. I replay them when the ache of missing him gets unbearable. It’s ridiculous, really — how a voice can feel more like home than any place I’ve ever been. I close my eyes, and suddenly, the distance doesn’t matter. He’s right there, in the spaces between his words, in the sound of his laughter that I’ve memorized like my favorite song.

He told me not to have hope — but hope isn’t a switch you can flick off just because someone asks you to. It’s more like a stubborn flame in the middle of a hurricane, flickering, bending, but never quite going out. No matter how many times reality storms in, soaking me to the bone with its cold, hard truths, there’s always that tiny ember refusing to die. Because love isn’t logical. It’s reckless..... and mine? Mine doesn’t know how to stop.

I still believe — foolishly, stubbornly, unapologetically — that this love isn’t for nothing. That maybe, somewhere in a future I haven’t reached yet, we’ll laugh about this. Maybe I’ll sit on a sun-drenched porch with our kids, coffee in hand, and tell them how their dad wasn’t just a love story — he was the plot twist I never saw coming. How I didn’t just fall for him; I crashed, burned, and rebuilt myself from the ashes, still reaching for him.

And when they ask, wide-eyed and curious, "Was Dad really worth all that?" I’ll smile — the kind of smile that holds entire galaxies behind it — ruffle their hair, and whisper, "Sweetheart, his eyes could’ve brought kingdoms to their knees, and I still would’ve carved him a throne from the ruins."

I know. It’s ridiculous. Borderline tragic. Maybe even a little mad. But here’s the truth — when the universe refuses to hand you a happy ending, sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pick up the pen and write one yourself.