Crush.
What does it mean?
If you ask me, I'd define it as this:
A ridiculous, helpless attraction toward someone who either has no interest in you, doesn't even know you exist, or is simply too good for you.
And if they like you back?
Well, congratulations — you're one of the lucky ones.
Unfortunately, I got the opposite package deal.
All three.
He's too good for me.
He has no interest in me.
And most importantly — he doesn't even know I exist.
He's popular. The kind of popular that draws people in without trying. The kind that makes girls orbit around him like satellites. Someone like him wouldn't even bother talking to someone like me… even if I started the conversation.
People usually assume popular guys are arrogant, rude, full of themselves. Honestly? That stereotype is stupid. Absolute nonsense. I refused to believe it — maybe because I was already under his spell. Maybe because I'd fallen victim to what people call the halo effect.
I couldn't even describe him properly, because I'd never met him in real life.
But I was still drawn to him.
His name is Felix.
I only knew him through Instagram. Never seen him in person. Never heard his laugh outside voice notes. Never stood close enough to notice the details reality reveals.
And yet—
I liked him.
No.
I had a crush on him.
He was tall, not overly muscular but perfectly built. Almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes. Sharp brows. A clean angled jaw. A tapered nose that somehow fit perfectly on his small, handsome face. His hair — brown with darker streaks — fell just messy enough to look effortless. And his eyes… light black, almost sparkling when he smiled.
God, his smile.
It should be illegal for someone to look that perfect.
—
I haven't told you much about me, have I?
You don't even know my name. All you know is that I'm pathetically infatuated with a boy who barely knows I exist.
So, hi.
I'm Gabriella Cohen. Ella, for short.
I'm twenty-one. Short. Not skinny. Brown eyes hidden behind glasses. Brown skin. Long blackish-brown hair that falls just above my waist. I'm the kind of girl you'll see sitting alone in the park with headphones on, nodding to music only I can hear.
People call that a loner.
I call it peaceful.
I do have friends. Three to five, maximum. I don't like large circles. I prefer quiet spaces — places where I can hear my own thoughts.
I write. A lot.
I love learning languages.
And my favorite thing in the world is curling up in bed with a tub of ice cream and binge-watching dramas.
The shower is my thinking sanctuary. My therapy booth. My confession room.
I'm not the type to fall easily.
But he was different.
Those eyes of his — they didn't just look at things. They noticed them. And that alone made him dangerously attractive.
Sadly, those eyes never noticed me.
He had plenty of girls who deserved his attention anyway. Gorgeous girls. Tall girls. Slim girls. Perfect girls.
And me?
Short. Chubby. Invisible.
That's what you call one-sided love.
The Message
One day, out of nowhere, I decided to text him.
Yes — the guy I'd never met.
The guy I only knew from a screen.
The guy my heart had somehow chosen.
I expected nothing. Honestly, I expected to be ignored.
But he replied.
I still remember the moment.
Beep.
My phone lit up beside me. I rolled over lazily, half asleep, grabbed it, and opened Instagram.
There it was.
Felix Hart — Message.
My eyes snapped open.
Reality slammed into me like cold water.
He replied.
He. Replied.
Out of all his followers. Out of all the beautiful girls who texted him daily. Out of everyone…
He chose to reply to me.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling with adrenaline.
Say something normal, I told myself.
Say something calm.
Say something sane.
Instead I typed:
Can I have your number?
I hit send.
Then immediately froze.
What. Did. I. Just. Do.
Who asks for someone's number an hour after texting them?!
Great. Fantastic. Now he probably thinks I'm a complete freak—
Ding.
Reply.
Some other day.
I stared at the screen.
He didn't reject me.
He didn't block me.
He didn't ignore me.
He said some other day.
Which meant… maybe.
—
Time passed.
We talked more.
Then more.
And more.
Somewhere between late-night conversations and random daytime chats, we became… friends.
Real friends.
I don't know when it happened. I don't know how. But suddenly my life felt different. Like something inside me had quietly unlocked. I've always had trust issues, especially with men. I kept emotional distance like armor.
But with Felix?
It felt easy.
Safe.
Like I didn't have to pretend.
We once talked for seven hours straight. Seven. Hours. I didn't even realize time had passed until my battery died.
His voice messages were unfairly attractive — deep, smooth, almost hypnotic. Sometimes I'd replay them just to hear the way he said my name.
I started imagining things. Dangerous things. Impossible things. Futures that didn't belong to me.
I knew better.
He wasn't ready to date. It had been two years since his breakup. He was conservative, careful, guarded.
And me?
I was just… there.
Still, I wondered:
What do I look like in his eyes?
Probably nothing special.
But I liked him anyway.
The Shift
Felix was honest — brutally honest. That's what I admired most about him. No sugarcoating. No fake sweetness. No pity.
Still, sometimes I couldn't understand him. One day he'd be warm and attentive. The next day it felt like I didn't exist.
Was he confusing on purpose?
Or was I just reading too much into everything?
Maybe both.
But I treasured every moment he gave me. Every message. Every call. Every shared secret. Knowing him became something I quietly cherished.
Somewhere along the way, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't just admire him anymore.
I had feelings for him.
Real ones.
—
It had been sixteen months since our first message.
Sixteen months of daily conversations. Of laughter. Of random rants. Of late-night confessions. Of things only we knew about each other.
One day, I finally confessed.
"I think I have a crush on you."
I expected awkwardness. Silence. Distance.
Instead?
The conversation just… continued.
Like nothing happened.
Like my confession had dissolved into air.
Maybe he forgot.
Maybe he ignored it.
Maybe he didn't feel the same.
I told myself it was fine.
Because even if he never loved me —
at least I still had him as a friend.
The Photo
Two weeks passed without hearing from him.
I woke up one morning to birds chirping outside my dorm window. I reached for my phone, half awake, expecting nothing.
Then I saw it.
A new post.
Felix.
With a girl.
My stomach tightened.
I zoomed in.
She was beautiful. Perfect curves. Perfect features. Standing close to him. Comfortable. Familiar.
I looked from her photo… to my reflection in the black screen.
I bit my lip.
Why did it hurt?
He wasn't mine.
He was never mine.
Anyone could like him. Anyone could be close to him. I had no claim. No right. No title.
Still, something twisted painfully inside my chest.
Jealousy.
I hated it.
I shut my eyes and whispered like a prayer:
Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up—
Click.
"Hello."
His voice.
Smooth. Close. Real.
Goosebumps spread down my arms.
"H-hello… how's everything lately?" I asked quietly.
"Fine," he replied.
Just one word.
My heart still raced anyway.
I swallowed. "You know I love you, right?"
Silence.
Then—
"Yes."
He sounded amused. Soft. Almost smiling.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
He asked gently,
"How are you doing?"
And somehow, that simple question guarded my heart more than any wall ever could.
We talked until sleep dragged us both under. Eventually he said goodnight and hung up.
I stared at the dark screen long after the call ended.
Smiling.
Because even if he didn't love me…
At least, for tonight,
he chose to stay.