About my Weird Feeling of you _

I’ve always been told I’m weird. Not in the way that makes people laugh at a silly joke, but in the way that makes them tilt their head, squint their eyes, and quietly step back. Maybe they’re right, because when it comes to feelings—especially feelings for someone—I’ve never experienced them the way everyone else seems to. For me, it doesn’t start with butterflies or dreamy thoughts. It begins with confusion. It begins with noticing the smallest details, the ones that probably don’t matter to anyone else. Like the way someone taps their pencil three times before writing, or the way their voice shifts ever so slightly when they’re trying to hide a smile.

When I first started feeling this for them, it didn’t even register as love or even liking. It felt like a puzzle in my head that I couldn’t stop trying to solve. I wanted to understand why their laugh seemed to echo differently in my ears compared to everyone else’s. I wanted to know why their footsteps always sounded like they were walking toward me, even if they weren’t. It was unsettling, like I was being pulled toward something invisible. That’s what made me feel weird—because no one else seemed to get caught up in the invisible things.

The more I noticed, the stranger it got. I started catching myself doing odd things—like writing down words they had said, not because the words mattered but because the rhythm of their voice did. Or staring too long, not at their face, but at their hands, because their hands seemed to explain things even when their mouth didn’t. When people asked me, “Do you like them?” I never knew how to answer. It didn’t feel like the kind of “like” they meant. It wasn’t about wanting to date, or hold hands, or do the things movies show. It was about this unshakable pull, a fascination so strong it made my heart restless.

And maybe that’s the strangest part—because feelings are supposed to be clear. You’re supposed to know when you like someone. But mine felt blurry, like ink spilled across paper, spreading into places I couldn’t control. Some days I wanted to run toward them, to just confess everything, even if I didn’t have the right words. Other days, I wanted to disappear, because the weight of it felt too unusual to explain. Loving—or whatever this was—didn’t feel like soft music or candlelight. It felt like static in my chest, like rain on a radio signal, beautiful but impossible to tune correctly.

Yet, in that weirdness, there’s also a kind of truth. Because being “weird” about feelings means they’re undeniably real. They don’t follow rules, they don’t fit neatly into the boxes people draw, but maybe that’s what makes them honest. When I think of them, I don’t see a perfect picture of love. I see a mosaic of strange, mismatched pieces—awkward silences, odd fascinations, restless thoughts. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes this feeling mine.

So yes, maybe I’m weird for feeling this way. But if being weird means noticing them in ways no one else does, if it means carrying this strange electricity in my chest whenever they’re near—then I think I’d rather stay weird forever.

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