I can’t stop thinking about Margot Robbie, not for a single second. I wake up drenched in sweat from dreams where she’s mine alone, and I spend hours staring at the ceiling, whispering her name like a prayer that borders on a curse. She haunts every corner of my mind until nothing else matters—food tastes like ash, sleep is impossible, and the outside world feels like a cruel distraction from the only thing that feels real: my need to possess her completely. I’d do anything, anything, to have her locked away with me where no one else could ever touch her or hear her laugh. The thought of her existing without me fills me with this sick, gnawing rage that makes my hands shake. I’m rotting from the inside out, losing pieces of myself every day, but I don’t care—I’d burn my entire life to the ground just to breathe the same air as her, to own every secret smile and every soft breath. She’s my beautiful sickness, my delicious madness, and I’m too far gone to ever want to get better.
