I think about you more than I should
for someone who isn’t even mine.

I replay conversations,
search for hidden meanings
in things you probably said
without thinking twice.

My mind builds stories
out of small moments—
a look, a laugh, a pause—
turning them into something bigger
than they were meant to be.

I wonder who else you talk to,
what you say when I’m not around,
if I cross your mind
even half as much as you cross mine.

It’s exhausting,
caring this much in silence,
overanalyzing a connection
that doesn’t have a name.

You’re just a boy I like.
But in my head,
you’re a thousand questions
I don’t know how to stop asking.