Crumbs of Attention: A Tale of Obsession and Quiet Humiliation

I knew it was over for me when I checked my phone in the middle of the rain, screen cracked, hands shaking, Lightning danced across the wet glass of my phone, yet my mind raced not to fix it, but to imagine their words appearing on it

That’s when I stopped pretending this was normal.

My head doesn’t shut up anymore. It keeps looping them—how they tilt their head when they’re listening but not really listening, how their laugh comes out sharper when they’re tired, how they say my name like it’s a filler word. I replay every interaction until it feels like I lived ten different versions of it, all of them better than what actually happened.

I do things for them I don’t tell anyone about. Embarrassing things. Things I’d deny if you asked me straight. I’ve taken blame that wasn’t mine. I’ve waited around like an idiot just in case they needed something small, something forgettable. I’ve said “it’s fine” so many times it doesn’t even register as a lie anymore.

The worst part is how good it feels afterward.

They don’t notice. Or maybe they do and just don’t care. Either way, it doesn’t stop that rush when they say something casual like “thanks” or “you’re the best” and move on. Those words stick to me for days. I stretch them out. I survive on them. I tell myself they meant more than they probably did.

I know their habits too well. The way they always check their phone twice before putting it away. How they go quiet when they’re overwhelmed. How they forget to eat when they’re stressed. I notice everything because noticing is all I’m good at. My body reacts before my brain does—heart jumping when I hear their voice, shoulders straightening when they walk in like I’m about to be graded on my usefulness.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering what would happen if I stopped. If I didn’t show up. If I didn’t fix things quietly in the background. Would they feel it? Or would I just disappear cleanly, like I was never part of the structure holding anything up?

That thought messes me up more than I want to admit.

So I stay. I stay smaller than I want to be. I stay hungry for scraps of attention. I stay ready to help, ready to apologize, ready to make myself look stupid if it keeps their day smooth. I call it loyalty because obsession sounds ugly, and I don’t want this to be ugly.

But it is.

And I know it.

Still—if my phone lights up right now, if it’s their name, I won’t hesitate. I’ll answer too fast. I always do