Fragments of Cassandra

There is something terrifying
about realizing your heart
can become a cathedral for someone
before they have even learned
whether they intend to worship gently
or leave muddy footprints
through every sacred room.

A crush is never just a crush for people like me.

It is excavation.
It is prophecy.
It is staring at a single interaction
until it blooms into galaxies inside the mind.

I replay every word they speak
like a devotee decoding scripture.
The pause before they answer.
The softness in their voice.
The way their attention brushes against me
for half a second longer than necessary.

And suddenly my thoughts become crowded.

Do they feel this too?
Or am I building castles
from shadows and coincidence?

I become both the witness
and the conspiracy.

One part of me wants to run toward them
with my heart uncovered in my hands,
still beating, still warm, still foolish enough
to believe tenderness is not a trap.

The other part stands at the edge of the doorway
counting exits.

Because I have loved before.
And I know how quickly admiration
can become consumption.

How some people touch your softness
only to confirm it exists
before using it against you.

So I question everything.

Am I too much?
Too eager?
Too available?
Too honest in a world
where everyone survives through performance?

Or worse;
am I not enough to be chosen carefully?

And maybe that is the cruelest part of longing:

not the obsession with another person,
but the obsession with what their love
might finally say about you.

Whether you are worthy.
Whether you are safe.
Whether your heart is something sacred
or simply something easy to enter.

Still, despite all the fear,
I continue to hope.

Which feels almost embarrassing now.

But there is a quiet kind of courage
in remaining soft
after being taught over and over
that softness bleeds.

And maybe love was never meant
to feel logical.

Maybe love was never meant
to feel safe in the hands.

Maybe it was always meant
to feel like standing in the ocean at night
outside the ruins of your own cathedral;
beautiful, endless, holy enough to drown in.

And maybe you never know
whether the tide is carrying you
toward someone who will light candles inside you
or someone who will only echo there
after they leave.


Be’ahava,
Cassandra