I had my first Korean romance movie moment, and it erupted something within me. With all the butterflies it came with, it also raised the voices of thousands of people I had turned into mine. As I stepped inside the keke, his slightly callused hands reached for my chin and told me to be safe. All I could do was make a light smile because the romance within me had died a year ago. I buried her and made my peace, yet a small gesture had opened a vortex of emotions. Suddenly, the fireflies in my belly were buzzing so loudly, and it caused a ring so great that it silenced the logical part of me, and I contemplated love. I don’t know who to blame, but St. Valentine is setting a promising example. Is it not insanity that I crave the main thing I hate?

The less than 10-minute ride to my estate was filled with questions I would have sworn I would never ask myself because I know who I am. I do not know myself. The agonizing part of a hopeless romantic are the fantasies; in less than 30 minutes, I had pictured the perfect life between I and this man. I heard a low and insecure voice in my head. “At least he likes you at this size.” The thought caught me as I entered my room. Funnily enough, the entrance to my room had a mirror, and I locked eyes with myself, truth staring back at me. I have only mentioned to close friends of mine how I have two voices in my head. I occasionally have conversations with them when I am at a crossroads, or something goes unnoticed by me but tampered with my mood unconsciously. I am very much aware that one is all the insults and abuses I have internalized, and the other is my childhood self. It’s a yin-yang relationship that I have somewhat gotten used to. To know me is to be made aware that self-esteem and body positivity mar me; I am uncertain if it will ever be accepted in this vessel.

Hearing those words, which was what I truly feared, made me spiral. I told everyone I could about the interaction that happened; it was more of a "look, someone liked me not for my personality, they saw me, and they thought she’s beautiful.” The same voice: “He hasn’t asked for your number, has he? He doesn’t want you; don’t be hopeful.” The sensible part of me did not have a response because if someone wanted you…they would want to contact you, would they not? In between work and zoning out, I tried to make excuses for him. Is he trying to be nice? He doesn’t want to seem like a pushover? Maybe he wants you to ask him for his? Maybe he had a girlfriend? Maybe he did like you, but he was ashamed of how you looked, so why bother? Oh, the beauty and the power that last maybe had, I was hooked by it. It’s the most sensible one, is it not? Why would I catch you stealing glances at me, flirting with me, yet you do not crave a stronger connection? They say crushes are a lack of information, but I would have studied your life like the Bible and merged us into one, but I indeed do not know you, and a simple gesture could be me overthinking it.

I have a bad habit where if anyone, be it a man, woman, or non-binary, costs me a night's rest, I invoke the name of Jesus and tell him to remove them from my life if he wills it. It seems counteractive that I crave this man so deeply, but I do this, is it not? I realized I did it with fear at the tip of my tongue. Why not erase the foreseeable heartbreak before it happens? And it is bittersweet because I said that prayer the night before I saw him. The regret that danced on my shoulders when I saw him and something was lacking became heavy. He did converse with me, but the softness was gone; he looked as brilliant as I last saw him under the moonlight. I gave him a light smile as I left, knowing I definitely may have ruined this.