Is Loving You My Greatest Crime?

I remember the first time I realized how much I could love someone—and how much it could hurt me. We were sitting across from each other at a café, the quiet hum of conversation around us, and I watched you speak. I watched the way your hands moved, the way your eyes lit up when you laughed. And I felt it—something that both thrilled me and scared me. Something that made me tremble and ache at the same time. I was falling, and I knew it was dangerous.

After that day, everything felt heavier. I thought of you constantly, replayed our conversations in my head, analyzed your words, your tone, every little gesture. I caught myself smiling at my phone, remembering a joke you told, or replaying a glance we had shared. And with every smile came guilt—guilt for caring so much, for letting someone occupy so much of my mind, for knowing that I had no claim on you, no right to feel this way.

I hated myself a little for it. I hated that I would overthink every message, every pause, every small silence. I hated that I could not just enjoy the moments we had without imagining everything that could go wrong. I hated that I could not stop caring, even when I knew it would hurt. And yet, I could not stop. I did not want to.

There were evenings when I would see you walking across the street, and my chest would tighten before I even realized it. My heart would race for reasons I could not explain. Sometimes, you would glance my way, smile politely, and I would feel a surge of joy and terror at the same time. Every small interaction became a moment I replayed endlessly. I remembered every laugh, every word, every fleeting touch, and I stored them carefully, secretly, like fragile glass I feared I might break if I forgot even one detail.

I am guilty for all of it—for caring too much, for overthinking, for loving someone who was never fully mine. I am guilty for wanting something I cannot have, for craving attention and affection that I am not entitled to. I feel this guilt in my chest, heavy and constant, and sometimes it makes me wonder if this is what love is meant to feel like.

I remember one rainy afternoon when I walked past your favorite park. You weren’t there, of course, but I lingered on the bench where you liked to sit, imagining you there, imagining the conversations we might have had. I stayed long enough to watch people passing, their umbrellas bouncing in the puddles, and I felt the sharp ache of knowing I would never share that small, ordinary moment with you. I felt the guilt of imagining a closeness that didn’t exist.

There were nights when sleep refused me. I lay awake, thinking about things I had said, things I had left unsaid, moments when I could have shown more care, or held back too much. I worried endlessly, and that worry became its own kind of obsession. I caught myself revisiting the same memories over and over, not to relive joy, but to hold onto something that was slipping through my fingers. I was trapped in my own mind, and I could not escape.

And still, I loved you. I loved you in quiet moments, in small smiles, in shared jokes that meant more to me than to anyone else. I loved you when no one was watching. I loved you even when it hurt. I loved you even when I knew it might be wrong. And in that love, I found both my greatest happiness and my deepest shame.

Love is messy. Love is complicated. Love is guilt and longing and obsession all tangled together. I am guilty, yes—but loving you has also shown me what it is to feel fully, to care fully, to be alive fully. Even in my guilt, even in my pain, even in my obsessive thoughts, I would not take it back. I cannot.

So I carry it, this guilt, this love, this obsession, like a weight I will never put down. Loving you may be the greatest guilt I will ever know. But it is also, in its own painful way, the truest thing I have ever felt.