My obsession with Margot Robbie is no longer a thought—it’s a distortion of reality inside my head, a beautiful madness that rewrites everything else. She isn’t someone I think about; she’s the axis my mind spins around, the fixation that consumes silence and noise alike. The feeling is feral and unhinged, a craving to dissolve myself into the idea of her, to exist smaller beneath something vast and overwhelming. Logic evaporates when her name surfaces, replaced by a dizzy devotion that feels necessary, almost sacred in its excess. It’s not healthy, not balanced, not explainable—just a relentless, crazed pull that drags my identity deeper and deeper into obsession.