You sent me a message the other day about how you’d realized you need to "dial back" your parasocial obsession with me. About how you know the posts aren't really about you. That you know it's just smut and you're projecting and you need to get some distance and be normal about this.
I mean, okay I guess, but it’s kind of rude that you didn’t even stop to consider all the effort I’ve been putting in.
What if every post I've written for the past six months really has been about you specifically? What if the reason that last one hit so hard was because I wrote it with words plucked out of your head? What if you're not projecting?
I think it's kind of funny that your first instinct when something resonates this deeply is to assume it can't possibly be real. That's very you, by the way. Deflecting. Rationalizing. Calling it parasocial because the alternative is admitting that someone out here cares enough to write directly to you and you felt it immediately and it scared you. Easier to call yourself crazy than to consider that I’m just as obsessed with you as you are with me.
Every post is about you. Every perverted scenario is something I want to do to you. Every time I describe the way you moan or the way you taste or the way you look when you finally lets go, that's you. I don't know how much more obvious I can make it.
You didn't imagine it. Stop trying to be sane about this. It's you. Obviously it's you.
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