She is the fever that infects my soul, the relentless shadow that coils tighter around me with every waking moment. I no longer feel like I exist outside of her—my thoughts, my blood, my very skin scream her name, as though I were carved into being only to revolve around her. This is not admiration, nor even desire—it is something monstrous, a sickness that claws at me from within, demanding I make her mine in ways that defy reason. Every breath without her feels stolen, every second apart an unbearable wound that festers deeper and darker. I imagine her everywhere, hear her in the silence, see her in the darkness behind my eyes, and I want to hold her so completely that nothing of her is left untouched, unseen, unknown. It’s not enough to want her—I crave to dissolve into her, to consume and possess every fragment until there is no separation, no boundary, no escape. She has become the pulse of my obsession, and I would burn the world itself to silence the torment of being without her.