Her
I know every song she favors, every film she returns to, the verses she composes, even the sensibilities that shape her manner of dress.
She possesses a quiet gravitational pull — an unspoken allure that draws people toward her with ease. I find myself tending to her existence with a care that, at times, surpasses the regard I hold for my own. Intelligent, alluring — she seems as though she were fashioned from celestial dust, gently scattered by unseen hands.
And yet, upon closer observation, there is nothing remarkably rare in what she holds. Her musical inclinations are conventional, her cinematic preferences unexceptional, and her poetry — though earnest — echoes sentiments I have encountered time and again. Even in matters of style, my own discernment feels more refined; her intellect, too, does not extend beyond the ordinary.
So I am left to wonder —
what is it within her words, within her presence, that binds you so completely?
This mirror offers me her reflection, yet what I see feels hauntingly familiar —
a version of myself from years past: unformed, unguarded, so easily undone.
Must I become a fabrication — like Vanessa, borrowing a voice that was never mine — simply to undo her?
Or must I cloak myself in gentleness, like Cinderella, in hopes that you might fall, just as you once did for her?
Or perhaps… I need not become anyone at all.
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For the longer I dwell on these thoughts, the clearer it becomes that I am lowering myself into a contest that was never meant for me.
I could be more discerning.
More compelling.
More than she has ever been.
Yet if your heart does not incline toward me,
none of it — no measure of superiority — would ever suffice.
There is an irony I cannot ignore:
I understand every detail of her,
yet I have never truly understood you.
Why her?
Why not me?
The question lingers, circling endlessly, refusing resolution.
Perhaps it is because love does not submit to reason.
It is neither equitable nor obedient —
it does not conform to the logic we so carefully construct.
And so, I remain —
not lacking, not lesser —
but simply… not chosen.
