Sugar, Secrets and Upheaval Boring. Boring. Boring. (18)

Obsession?

The word hangs in the sterile air of my mind, a putrid, unwelco intrusion. Was that what this… is? This persistent ache of absence, this unwelco preoccupation, this relentless replaying of mories? Obsession. The very notion is distasteful, implying a lack of control, a surrender to irrationality.

To be obsessed… to be consud by another being to the point of losing oneself? The thought is abhorrent, a violation of my autonomy. This… interest in Raphael, this undeniable pull… it is rely a logical consequence of his unique position in my world. He is an anomaly, a variable that defies easy categorization. My focus on him is purely analytical, a desire to solve the puzzle of his baffling empathy, his inexplicable connection to .

This persistent missing… it is simply an acknowledgnt of his utility, the void his absence has created in my… strategic landscape. The mories… they are rely data points, re-examined for further insight into his… unusual nature.

Obsession? No. The term is far too… emotional. Too… human. This is sothing else. Sothing… colder. More calculated. A persistent intellectual curiosity, perhaps. A strategic dependency. Anything but that revolting concept.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Love? That blithering idiot. That… therapist bug. Where in the nine hells did he procure his so-called credentials? Remind to locate that institution and personally oversee its utter annihilation. Incineration. Reduced to ash.

Even after I ticulously laid bare the very architecture of my being, the cold, hard-wiring that precludes such sentintal drivel, he still dares to utter that saccharine obscenity? Love. He knows – I explained it with the precision of a surgeon – that the very chemical substrates of such an emotion are absent within . My brain, by its very design, is incapable of that oxytocin-fueled delusion.

And yet, he persists! This willful ignorance, this clinging to his simplistic, neurotypical worldview in the face of irrefutable evidence… it is beyond infuriating. It is insulting. To reduce my complex, albeit perhaps self-serving, attachnt to Raphael to that base, biological imperative… it is an act of profound intellectual incompetence.

Love. The word tastes like ash in my mind. A aningless label applied by a mind incapable of comprehending the vast, cold reality of my own. That therapist bug… his continued existence is a testant to the universe's cruel sense of humor. He mistakes a complex calculation for a hormonal surge. He sees connection where there is only… a strategic necessity. The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated gall. Incineration is too kind.