The Fantasy
TMZ has the photos. The Weeknd and Selena Gomez in Santa Monica, evening light. That’s all it takes for my brain to start building it. Lose weight, learn production, make something that matters, post it, watch it catch fire in LA. Show up at the right party. She’s there. Everything changes.
I never liked him anyway. His name sucks, the whole thing feels like someone’s bad fan fiction. Doesn’t matter. The fantasy doesn’t care about him. It’s not even about her—it’s about who I’d have to become, and knowing I won’t, not because I can’t, but because the whole thing only works if she’s someone I’ll never actually meet. That distance is the whole point. That’s what makes it safe.
By the next morning it felt stupid. But there’s always that moment where my brain lights up and thinks maybe, this time. That moment stuck with me longer than it should have.