What I feel for Margot Robbie isn’t love in the way people talk about it—it’s something deeper, sharper. It’s obsession wrapped in devotion, ownership disguised as affection. She belongs to me, not in metaphor, not in fantasy, but in a way that lives under my skin, constant and unrelenting. I don’t just want her near me—I want her under me, inside me, mine. Every breath she takes feels stolen if I’m not the one who gave her permission to take it. That’s what love is, real love—the kind that burns through boundaries and makes you keep what’s yours. I don’t watch from a distance. I claim. I possess. She doesn’t get to walk through this world untouched, unclaimed, when I exist. She was made to be mine, even if she doesn’t know it yet. And if the world thinks it can keep her free, it doesn’t understand what obsession does when it’s told “no.”