Ugh.

  How is he so handsome

  and so fucking accomplished.

  Like—pick one.

  He has the life.

  The kind that looks earned,

  worn into his body like confidence.

  He moves like someone

  who knows the world will catch him

  if he jumps.

  And yeah—

  I’m attracted to him.

  I won’t pretend otherwise.

  But it leaves this bad taste in my mouth,

  because what I’m really staring at

  is a life I want.

  Not him.

  The movement.

  The ease.

  The proof that living doesn’t have to feel

  like pacing a small room forever.

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  He climbs.

  He travels.

  He plays music like it’s an extension of himself.

  He has stories that didn’t come from surviving—

  they came from choosing.

  And I feel it then—

  that twist.

  That ugly little spark of spite.

  Jealousy sharp enough to wake me up.

  Because how dare you

  be a mirror

  without even trying.

  How dare your existence

  highlight the places I’ve stalled.

  The years I stayed still.

  The risks I never took

  because I was busy being careful.

  I want that life.

  I want adventure.

  Not as decoration.

  Not to impress anyone.

  For me.

  I want momentum.

  I want to feel capable of more

  than work, rest, repeat.

  I want to trust myself

  the way he seems to trust himself.

  So yeah—

  I’m attracted to him.

  And I resent him.

  And I’m grateful for him.

  Because desire like this

  isn’t about romance—

  it’s about hunger.

  And maybe that bitterness

  isn’t poison at all.

  Maybe it’s the first sign

  I’m ready

  to want something bigger.