Jj.

I’ve fallen into him like pages fall into chapters—slowly, without warning, and with the quiet weight of something inevitable. But I can’t post him, can’t tag him, can’t claim him in the loud way the internet likes. He’s not for show. He’s a passing glance across a crowded room. He’s late-night conversations that leave more unsaid than spoken. He’s the reason I rewrite drafts of captions I’ll never post, the soft ache behind the playlist no one else will hear. I want to scream him into the world, but some feelings are sacred. And maybe this—whatever this is—was always meant to be felt, not flaunted. Loved, not liked.