You’re not “in love.” You’re overstimulated, under-grounded, and mistaking every dopamine spike for destiny. You’re collecting crushes like glitter, shiny, everywhere, and absolutely meaningless.
Let’s break your situation down without the fantasy goggles you keep trying to wear:
Your massage therapist? That’s not love. That’s physical arousal mixed with the illusion of intimacy because he’s touching you in a controlled environment where you’re naked and vulnerable. That doesn’t make him special. It makes him a professional doing his job while you build a romantic movie in your head.
Your best friend’s brother? Again, not love. He squeezed you in a pool, and you practically wrote wedding vows in your brain. You fainted from “feeling”? No, you fainted from infatuation mixed with zero emotional boundaries. And the fact he’s older, divorcing, and unavailable just makes him more appealing to your fantasy-addicted brain.
Your tennis partner? You fell, he cleaned up your leg, and now you’ve promoted him to a starring role in your private imagination because he saw your lingerie by accident. You’re not in love. You’re fascinated by the attention. You’re intoxicated by men noticing you. You’re projecting desire onto anyone who gives you even one moment of physical closeness.
None of these men is in a relationship with you. None of them has made a move. None of them is in love with you. You’re spinning entire emotional narratives while they’re living their normal lives, oblivious to the romance story you’re writing for them.
You know why all three feel like “love”? Crushes are safe, one-sided fantasies where you don’t have to risk anything real. You’re addicted to the rush, not the person.
.
