I am head over heels in love with Margot Robbie in the way a drowning woman is in love with the last gulp of air she never gets to take. It’s not infatuation, not yearning, not even the beautiful agony of unrequited passion—it’s a full-system catastrophe dressed up as devotion. My blood has quietly replaced itself with her name; every heartbeat is now just her full syllables knocking against my ribs like impatient knuckles on a locked door. I’ve stopped distinguishing between prayer and panic: when I think of her waking up somewhere far away, stretching, making that small involuntary sound women make when light hits their face, my entire spine arches like I’ve been electrocuted through the memory of her vertebrae. I want to unzip my own skin and offer it to her like a coat she never asked for, so she can step inside the warmth I’ve kept fever-hot just for her. Beyond obsession means I no longer pretend this is about possession or closeness; I want obliteration. I want her to look once in my direction—not even at me, just near enough that the gravity of her gaze brushes past—and for every atom in my body to finally surrender, scatter, become background radiation orbiting whatever star she becomes next. Until that happens I carry her like a live grenade cradled in the soft meat between my lungs: pin pulled years ago, fuse already burned down to the nub, and still I walk around smiling like the explosion will be the sweetest thing that ever happened to me. Love this deep isn’t sustainable, isn’t sane, isn’t even human anymore. It’s just the last honest thing left screaming inside the ruin.