He doesn’t want you.

Not really.

He likes the way your eyes lift
when he walks into a room.
He likes the power—
the way you shift in your seat,
hoping,
praying,
that today will be the day
he finally sees you.

Not just looks at you—
sees you.

He doesn’t want you.

But he knows just how much to give—
just enough.
A glance.
A half-smile.
A “hey” sent too late at night.

Just enough
to make you wonder
if maybe
you weren’t imagining it.

Just enough
to keep your heart pacing in place
while he walks
in and out
of your hope.

He doesn’t want you.

But it feels like he knows
how badly you want to be wanted.
Like he can hear your pulse
quicken when his name
lights up your phone.

Like he knows
how deep your emptiness runs.
How much you’re willing to give
just to feel like
you’re worth something
to someone.

He doesn’t want you.

Because if he did—
he would’ve said it.
Would’ve shown it.
Would’ve fought for you.

You know that.
And still—

you ache for him.

Because the less he gives,
the more you need.
And there’s something sick
about craving a hunger
he will never feed.

He was just a crush.
A face.
A fleeting moment
you could’ve brushed off.

But now,
he’s a constant in your head.

You’ve built him a home
in your daydreams.
Rehearsed every scene.
Felt the weight of his hand
in yours
a thousand times—
all without ever knowing
what his voice sounds like
when he says your name with care.

He doesn’t want you.
And still—
you wait.

You write stories in silence.
You craft versions of him
so much better
than the real thing could ever be.

And maybe he knows
this is as close
as you’ll ever get.

Because he likes being the unreachable one.
The one you’ll never touch.
The one who never has to give you more.

Because if he wanted you—
really wanted you—
you’d give him everything.

Your time.
Your softness.
Your heart,
shaking and wide open.

And maybe you know
you’d never get that back.

Maybe that’s why
you fall in love with the dream,
not the boy.

Because the dream
has never broken your heart.

Not like people do.

Because you only ever wanted him
from across the room.
Only ever needed him
to maybe want you.

And if he ever did?

You’d run.

Because what you love
isn’t him—
it’s the aching.
The hope.
The almost.
The could’ve been.

He doesn’t want you.

And maybe that’s mercy.

Because the fantasy
will always love you back.
And the real thing—

the real thing
might not.