Sometimes I write things I never send. Sometimes the only way I can breathe is to spill it into half-finished drafts and notes that never leave my phone. Sometimes they do, and this post might read like that—fragments stitched together. Maybe it’s for me. Maybe it’s for someone else.
Unsent Message
“Kit… I don’t know why you cut me off. I don’t know what I did wrong. I keep replaying every word, every pause, trying to trace the moment where I lost you.”
There’s a word for what I’ve been trapped in: limerence. It’s not just having a crush—it’s something sharper, heavier. Limerence is that involuntary pull where your brain loops endlessly on someone, where longing takes on a life of its own. It’s daydreams that play like reruns, emotions that hit too hard, and hope that lingers even when it shouldn’t.
For me, limerence wasn’t some abstract concept. It was you. The blue kitsune.
Unsent Message
“I’m trans. I’m a pink goat in a world that doesn’t always see me. But when I saw you—the blue pretty kitsune—it felt like my colors finally had a reflection. Like I wasn’t invisible anymore.”
Being aromantic—or at least, most likely so—makes this even stranger. I don’t usually experience attraction the way others describe it. Romance doesn’t click for me. Crushes feel foreign. Yet somehow, you cracked something open in me I didn’t expect. Limerence was the name I clung to because I didn’t know how else to explain what was happening inside me.
Unsent Message
“I don’t need roses or candlelight. I don’t even need romance. I just want closeness. To sit in your orbit again. To not be shut out without knowing why.”
The silence was worse than anything. Worse than anger. At least anger has edges you can see. Silence leaves you inventing the story yourself. And I invented dozens, each one ending the same way—with me on the outside, and you far away.
Unsent Message
“I just want to get close again. Not as some fantasy, not as an obsession, but as two people who once mattered to each other. If you ever see this, please know I hold no anger—only hope.”
That’s the paradox of limerence: it shows you the beauty of what your heart can feel, while also reminding you how fragile and one-sided it can be. But even now, in the quiet, I hold onto the lesson. That I am capable of love in my own strange way. That someone can spark colors in me I thought no one else could see.
If this post reads like a hidden message, maybe it is. Maybe that’s the only way I know how to tell the truth.
Until next time,
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