I Think They Love Me. [1]

The first time I met them, I thought I was lucky.

You have to understand—I was at my lowest. Not in a dramatic, tragic way, but in that quiet, bone-deep exhaustion that settles into your ribs when the world keeps kicking you down.

I had just lost my job. My rent was overdue. My relationships, the ones that weren't already burned to ash, were strained, threadbare, and fraying fast.

So when I met them, I thought—finally.

Finally, someone who listened.

Someone who understood.

---

It started at the café.

Not a nice one—the kind with burnt coffee and wobbly tables, where the employees look like they've long accepted their fates. I was staring at my laptop, scrolling through job listings I had no chance at landing, my stomach twisting with the kind of dull hunger you stop noticing after a while.

And then they sat across from me.

Uninvited.

I looked up, and there they were.

Perfectly put together—but not in a way that felt unnatural. Not in a way that screamed money or power. No, it was intentional. Precise. Like they had studied exactly how to belong in a place like this.

They smiled. Soft. Familiar. Like they already knew me.

"You look like you could use a distraction."

I blinked. My first instinct should've been to leave—because who does that? But the way they said it, the way they tilted their head just slightly, like they already knew I wasn't going to refuse—

I stayed.

God, I stayed.

...

We talked for hours.

I don't remember what about.

No—that's a lie.

I remember talking. I remember their voice, smooth and calm, like water rippling over stone. I remember how easy it was to speak, how every word I let slip felt lighter, freer, like I was unraveling knots I didn't even know were there.

But I don't remember a single thing they said.

And I didn't notice that at first.

I should have.

...

They started showing up everywhere.

At the café. On the train. Once, outside my apartment building, just leaning against the wall like they belonged there.

And every time, the same smile. The same warmth in their eyes.

The same question.

"How are you feeling today?"

And I would tell them.

I would tell them everything.

Because when I did—God, it felt good.

Like pouring everything out, letting the weight sink into the floor, leaving me lighter, clearer, better.

Like I was being drained dry—but in a way that felt good.

And I thought—this is what it's supposed to be like.

This is what being known feels like.

This is connection.

This is love.

Right?

...

It wasn't until weeks later that I noticed something was wrong.

Not a big thing.

Just a feeling.

Like when you walk into a room and forget why you came.

Like waking up from a dream and not knowing what was real.

I started forgetting things.

Little things, at first.

Where I had been the night before. What I had eaten. Whether I had eaten at all.

Then bigger things.

Why my mother had called, what we had talked about. Why my boss was angry with me. What day it was.

It only ever happened after I saw them.

And I started feeling—empty.

Not sad. Not numb.

Just… hollow.

Like a room stripped of furniture, like a house long abandoned.

Like something had been taken.

And when I saw them again, that day outside my building, waiting for me like always—

I smiled.

Because that's what I always did.

Because the emptiness faded when they were near.

And for the first time, a thought settled at the back of my mind—

I think they love me.