[fuckingpsyched]

I'm trying

It was graduation meeting day. You had messaged me earlier about the clearance forms. I still hadn’t finished mine. I woke up late after pulling a long shift the night before, and we exchanged a few quick messages before I rushed to school.

I sat near the front. You were right behind me. I knew you were there, but I didn’t turn around or greet you. Then I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. You leaned in close and asked, “Where’s the venue for the graduation?”

Was that really just a question? The meeting hadn’t even mentioned the venue yet.

After the meeting, our group headed out for dinner at Redtail—my favorite restaurant. In the hallway, you noticed I was sweating heavily and quietly offered me your hand fan. You always notice the small things. It’s one of the things that makes you so nurturing.

One of our friends walked up and playfully snatched the fan from my hand. You immediately spoke up: “I gave it to her because she’s sweating.”

I keep replaying that moment. Am I overthinking everything? Reading meaning into gestures that might mean nothing?

On the way to Redtail, I sat in the front seat while you and the others rode in the back. At the restaurant, I deliberately chose a seat away from you again, keeping my careful distance. While I was writing on Redtail’s famous wall (the one guests are allowed to vandalize), you took a photo of me. I didn’t even realize it until you sent it later.

Why did you do that?

I’m probably thinking too much again… but I can’t seem to stop.

[fuckingpsyched]

Good Luck, Babe!

You finally talked about him.

It’s fine, it’s cool. I’ve known for months, of course—I just acted like I didn’t.

We grew closer again because we are seatmates this semester, and we always had something to talk about. Not only about school.

I pried about someone else from the past, that guy who liked you, the one I called “Tandu guy.” You told me you turned him down gently, that you told him you already had your eyes on someone else. That was back in December 2024, when we were at Starbucks talking about it.

You said you didn’t remember telling me.

You were surprised that I did. Maybe because it’s April 2026 now.

I wanted to ask why you couldn’t tell me the same thing you told him—that you already liked someone else. All you ever said to me was that you weren’t ready for a relationship, that you wanted to focus on school. It was all bullshit, of course. I knew it even then.

I just wish you had been honest with me. I wouldn’t have held it against you.

Fast forward to today—you finally talked about him. The confirmation didn’t hurt in that moment, not really, because I already knew. I still acted surprised.

You said I even reacted to your “soft launch” of him on Instagram. I don’t remember that. I remember replying to one of your stories, but not the caption. Maybe I misunderstood.

Now you’re sharing details I didn’t know before. Thanks, I guess, for trusting me.

He’s younger than you. You’re turning 29 in July, and he’s 23—about to graduate with a degree in computer engineering.

“You’ll remember these details?” you asked as we walked to the cafeteria.

“I will. I don’t know.”

Of course I will. I’ll remember everything about you. (I’m cliche, who cares)

You chose him.

I’m looking forward to meeting him at our law school graduation. I want to see him for myself—get a proper look at the guy.

Despite everything you recently shared—about your ex-girlfriend who hurt you, who you later found out was talking shit about you, even claiming you groomed her—you say you’re happy now. That you’re “dating to marry.”

Maybe you are.

Bisexuality—I guess I’ll never fully understand it.

Well… good luck, babe.

You’ll have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.

[fuckingpsyched]

Blue Book

Our Civ Law prof dropped the bomb this morning: quiz today. Not exactly shocking, Atty loves her pop quizzes. But still, last-minute enough to send the whole block scrambling.

I got to school early (around 3PM before our 5:30PM class) just to hit the bookstore for blue books. Plural. Knowing us—seatmates, always in each other’s orbit—I bought an extra one. Just in case.

I hunkered down at the Magis canteen to cram, heart split between codal provisions and… well, you. Then I messaged, playing it cool:

“Got an extra blue book here if you need one.”

Vague on purpose. My quiet way of saying: Hey, I thought of you first. I still got you.

Your reply popped up about 10 minutes later:

“I JUST BOUGHT EXTRA AND WAS ABOUT TO MESSAGE YOU HAHA”

All caps. Excitement? Or just your usual chaotic typing? I stared at the screen and smiled anyway—that stupid, automatic smile that still stings a little. Was it real synchronicity, or were you just mirroring me politely because you knew I already had you covered? A nice way to dodge the favor without making it awkward?

I can't tell anymore.

Back when the crush was at full volume—big, dumb, all-consuming—I’d dissect every overlap like case law: same thought, same timing, must mean something. We were on the same wavelength, effortless.

Now? I don’t even know your status. Last December 2025 you were still with him (his Facebook post said so). But people move on quietly these days. No dramatic bio updates required. So I stay careful. Guarded. I keep telling myself the feelings dulled into background static.

But moments like this—a shared blue book, mirrored texts—pry the armor open again.

I handed over the “extra” one with a casual shrug when we sat down. You said thanks, flashed that smile that still wrecks my pulse rate unfairly.

Then class happened, and the day kept unfolding.

After Civ Rev, we had Legal Counseling. Still seatmates (pathetic how much I look forward to Mondays now just for that). We sat closer than usual, shoulders sometimes brushing. Joked around, passed notes, pushed each other during voluntary recitations. “Go on, answer Atty’s question, you’ve got this.” “No, you first!” Wanting the other to shine. Your smile is unbelievable, bright and easy, and I wonder if you notice how my face heats up every time I turn to you mid-joke.

Then, for the first time I can remember, you volunteered. Raised your hand without me having to nudge. Like clockwork, I turned to record a video of you in my phone. I’d like to think I helped. My gentle pushes, my quiet belief in you finally tipping the scale. Gave you that extra spark of confidence.

And then—out of nowhere—you reached over, cupped my left thigh, gave it a quick, firm squeeze, urging me: “Your turn, raise your hand too.”

I froze. Not because I didn’t have an answer, but because the touch melted everything else. Heat shot straight through me, brain short-circuiting, words gone. Your hand lingered just a second longer than necessary before pulling back, casual as if it were nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.

Did you feel it too? Or was it just friendly encouragement, seatmate solidarity?

Class ended. We packed up, walked out together. Small talk, laughs, no mention of the squeeze or the blue book or any of it.

I’m still replaying it hours later.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just muscle memory.

Or maybe these tiny gestures—extra blue books, mirrored messages, a hand on my leg—are stacking up, quietly rewriting the story I thought was over.

Someday I might stop buying the extra one. Stop hoping you’ll notice I did. Stop waiting for the next small spark to crack me open again.

But not today.

And tonight, Chappell Roan’s “The Subway” keeps looping in my head, like she wrote it for exactly this kind of quiet ache:

It’s just another day

And it’s not over ‘til it’s over, it’s never over

[fuckingpsyched]

Echo of One O'Clock

I dreamt of you and woke— wishing I hadn't.

Or maybe wishing it was real. It felt so real.

You kissed me in the dream. I froze, surprised, but leaned in, kissed you back— and there it was: my feelings for you, stubborn as ever, never left.

The same curiosity. The same pull, electric and quiet. All of it, still there.

Your lips—God, how soft they were. No rush, no flicker of goodbye. It was slow, deliberate, the weight of you pressing into me, like a secret finally spoken.

Then: afternoon light slicing through, one o'clock, sweat-damp sheets. I burn hot, reach out— searching the empty air for you.

You're nowhere. Of course you're not. I swallow it down, try to make peace with the space you've carved out.

You have a boyfriend now. January marks a year— anniversary confetti I'll never see.

But rewind twelve months earlier: we were tangled in the school festival's chaos, a whole day was ours, snapping photos like promises— your laugh in every frame, my thumb brushing yours. I thought: This. The turning point. The spark catching.

I still don't know what snuffed it. I still think of you. I do. Unfortunately, I do.

[fuckingpsyched]

I've been listening to Chappell Roan's "The Subway" on repeat, letting it loop through my headphones like a quiet confession I can't shake.

The last time I saw you was last Thursday. You slipped into class late, head down, claiming your spot at the very front while I huddled at the back, half-hidden in the shadows of the last row. I watched you enter. Your familiar silhouette cutting through the doorway but you never glanced over your shoulder. After the class dragged to a close, I gathered my things and slipped out too, weaving through the crowd without a single look back. In that moment, I felt a strange swell of pride, like I'd finally learned to let the door close behind me.

A week slipped by, heavy with the echo of that earthquake that postponed our class on Friday, scattering everyone like loose gravel. Then, there you were again, slipping into the church just as I was leaving—my prayers wrapping up in the quiet hush of the pews. Our eyes met and we exchanged a smile: quick, tentative, the bare minimum of what we used to share. We always did this before, these soft acknowledgments whenever our paths crossed in this familiar space. We always see each other here, in the dim glow of stained glass and murmured hymns. Sometimes I'd linger, waiting for you to finish your own reflections so we could exit together, our steps syncing on the path outside like it was the most natural thing.

That's all it is now: these fleeting exchanges, polite as footnotes. You were cradling something in your arms. A paper bag, maybe takeout food? I couldn't help but wonder, my curiosity tugging like an untied shoelace.

I turned and walked away first, steps measured on the uneven path leading from the church. God, I wanted to look back. To pivot on my heel and ask how you've been, really been. The kind of question that unravels everything. Maybe even tease about your boyfriend, that casual "lol" hiding the ache of imagining you with someone else. I wanted to know where you'd been during the quake, if the ground had trembled under you too, if you'd thought of me even once amid the chaos. I could feel you behind me, a presence like a shadow flickering under the streetlights, stretching long into the deepening night. Students surged ahead in a noisy cluster, so I slowed my pace, deliberate, hoping you'd close the gap. But you didn't. The distance held, and so I never turned around.

All the while, Chappell's voice hummed in my head, a soundtrack to the unraveling:

It's just another day

And it's not over 'til it's over

It's never over

‘Til I don't look for you on the staircase

I’ll wish you still thought we were soulmates

I’m still counting down all of the days

‘Til you're just another girl on the subway

By the time I neared home, the sidewalk blurring under my feet, the song swelled — Chappell belting louder, fiercer, her voice cracking open the sky:

She's got, she's got a way

She's got a way, she's got a way

And then that gut-wrenching pivot, the words twisting like a knife mid-turn:

She got, she got away

She got away, she got away

It hit me like a wave crashing without warning. Cold, relentless, pulling me under. A rush of sadness so sharp it stole my breath, leaving me hollow on the doorstep. I miss talking to you. The easy rhythm of our conversations, the way your laugh could untangle any knot in my chest.

I shouldn't feel this way anymore. I know that. But some days, the subway keeps running, and you're still the one I can't stop searching for in the crowd.

[fuckingpsyched]

Midterm exams are finally over. I only had two this semester.

For the first exam, we weren’t in the same room, but I saw you afterward while chatting with classmates. You came down the stairs and stood just two feet away. I’m sure you saw me—how could you not? But I didn’t catch you looking my way, not even a glance. You didn’t say hi or ask how my exam went. I wanted to ask how you’re doing, but I’m so tired of always being the one to reach out in our so-called friendship.

For the second exam, we weren’t in the same room either. I finished seven minutes earlier than the first and lingered around campus, hoping to spot you. No luck. I checked Dunkin’ Donuts, where you’re usually hanging out—nothing. I even stopped by McDonald’s, thinking you might’ve grabbed dinner. Still no sign of you.

These past weeks, I noticed something off on your Instagram. You changed your profile picture—the one matching your boyfriend’s—then deactivated your account. I thought maybe exam stress pushed you off social media. Then I saw he deactivated too. I wanted to reach out, to show I’m still here, that I care. But I stopped myself. I’m done feeling foolish, hurt by your indifference.

Then, a day before my last exam, you both reactivated your accounts. Strange. I hope you’re okay.

Enjoy the mental health break.

[fuckingpsyched]

Well.

My gut has never failed me, and now the truth is clear. For months, I’ve been fooling myself, believing you were single because you said you weren’t ready for a relationship and were focused on law school. You even gave me that same advice with a laugh, and I bought it.

You were open about being bisexual, and I respected that. But in my mind, I imagined you were only into women, likely because you talked more about your past relationships with them. Then I started noticing clues. I first saw him—the guy who turned out to be your boyfriend—when I checked your Twitter. The same guy appeared on your Facebook, with a username that stirred something in me. My gut screamed there was more to it. In December 2024, you posted a note wishing him a happy birthday, and I assumed he was just an internet friend, a college student in Cebu, much younger than us. You’re 28 now, and he’s what, five years younger? You never shied away from dating younger people, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.

When I confirmed it was him, it hit me: he’d been in your life for a while, probably waiting until you finally said yes. You went to Cebu in January 2025, met him, and I saw the photos. I was stunned, but it didn’t break my heart—it was a wake-up call. I’d been naive, thinking Taylor Swift’s “The Story of Us” was our song, when you barely acknowledged me at school. I was always the one reaching out, texting first, pouring effort into our so-called friendship. You never reciprocated.

I’m done fooling myself into thinking you ever saw me as more than a passing thought. If you valued our friendship, you would have shown it. Goodbye.