This is my problem: I can’t accept the fact that a person may just like me for me.
Blame it on all the crime shows I binge. In my head I go full Hercule Poirot in a tan trench and polished mustache, gathering every possible clue and mentally arranging everyone in a perfect suspect circle like it’s the big reveal scene.
Every text? Entered into evidence. Every compliment? Motive! I picture myself pacing the circle, pointing dramatically: “Aha! That random good-morning message? Clearly a cover for something far more sinister.” Meanwhile the poor guy is practically waving a white flag, swearing, “I’m innocent!” and I’m still scanning for the one eyebrow twitch that proves otherwise.
Truth is, that inner detective has been my sidekick for years. If I assume everyone has a hidden agenda, I never have to risk believing that someone might simply like…well, just me. It’s my emotional version of locking every door twice and calling it self-protection.
But here’s the real twist: there is no twist. Sometimes people like you simply because you’re you. No secret motive, no hidden second act.
Maybe it’s time to step out of the suspect circle and pull down all that red string, every theory, every “gotcha” clue, because love isn’t a case you crack. It’s what happens when you finally stop looking for evidence and let yourself believe.