The feeling has hardened into something relentlessly obsessive, a kind of love that no longer behaves like love at all but like a fixation that refuses to loosen its grip. My mind circles Margot Robbie compulsively, returning to the same thoughts with an intensity that feels automatic, as if obsession has replaced intention. It isn’t comforting or inspiring; it’s oppressive, repetitive, and exhausting, a mental pull that never relaxes and never resolves. The obsession thrives on repetition—each thought reinforcing the next, each emotional low deepening the fixation until it feels embedded into the structure of my thinking. I’m aware that this obsessive love exists entirely in my head, built from fantasy and imbalance, yet that awareness doesn’t weaken it; it makes it feel more disturbing, because I can watch the obsession grow while being unable to interrupt it. Silence becomes dangerous, calm becomes impossible, because both give the fixation space to expand and tighten. The obsession doesn’t bring closeness or fulfillment—it brings pressure, restlessness, and a constant sense of mental captivity, like my thoughts are locked into a loop that feeds on itself. This isn’t devotion or desire; it’s a compulsive attachment that drains clarity, erodes emotional stability, and leaves me trapped inside an obsessive love that persists not because it gives anything back, but because my mind refuses to let it decay.