How I Want Someone to Fall for Me

I always imagine the person falling for me when I am dancing. Not dancing for anyone. Not dancing to impress anyone, just dancing for myself. And every time I imagine it, I see it from a third perspective.

Imagine a club where everyone is dancing. Some people move with the music, some move with the crowd, and some are dancing so deeply in their own world that nothing else exists.

The latter would be me.

Dancing everything off.

For a moment, I am the centre of my own universe. A second later, the centre of the dance floor. I do not give a fuck who likes my dancing and who doesn't. Let them watch. Let them laugh. Let them admire. Let them be jealous.

And somewhere among all those faces is him.

Silent.

Observing.

Not because I am the prettiest girl in the room. Not because he wants my attention. But because he has never seen someone move like they have nowhere else to be and nothing else to prove.

Like freedom has somehow taken human form and decided to dance.

Maybe, moments later, he joins me in my madness.

Maybe he falls in love with me there because dancing is the thing I am best at. The thing that makes me feel the most alive. The thing that strips away every layer until only I remain.

But then a thought always ruins the fantasy.

I want him to fall in love with me when I am happiest.

But isn't that unfair to my broken parts?

To the pieces of me that stay hidden behind closed doors. The pieces that cry when nobody is watching. The pieces that are still learning how to heal.

Wouldn't it be an injustice if he only loved the version of me dancing under bright lights and never the version trying to survive in the dark?

Then comes another scenario.

One that sounds ridiculous even in my own head.

Imagine me on a rooftop in the middle of a panic attack.

The city below is alive, but my world has narrowed down to one desperate attempt to breathe properly.

My thoughts are racing. My chest hurts. My hands shake.

And then he appears.

He notices me.

He sits beside me.

He talks softly and patiently until the storm inside me settles.

Maybe that is where he falls in love.

But I hate that scenario even more.

Because I do not want someone to love me out of pity.

I do not want love that begins with rescuing me.

I do not want to become someone's favourite tragedy.

I do not want affection handed to me like charity.

Love should not feel like a reward for suffering.

And just like that, the second fantasy collapses too.

Then comes the third one.

The stupidest one.

The one that makes the least sense.

And somehow the one I believe the most.

Maybe he is already there.

Not close enough for me to notice, but close enough for our lives to brush against each other.

He sees me dancing and says nothing.

He sees me crying and says nothing.

He sees me fail.

He sees me succeed.

He sees me brave, terrified, loud, quiet, fierce, soft, confident, insecure.

He sees every version of me that the first two fantasies tried to separate.

And still, he does not reach out.

Not because he doesn't care.

But because some stories are not meant to be rushed.

Maybe months pass.

Maybe years.

Maybe we keep existing on the edges of each other's lives without knowing it.

Then one random day, our eyes meet.

And something shifts.

Maybe he keeps staring.

Maybe he immediately looks away as if he has been caught doing something illegal.

Either way, my mind finally registers a new face.

After that, he is everywhere.

At parties I always attend.

In the quiet corners of my favourite coffee shop.

In familiar streets.

On rooftops.

In places I have visited a hundred times before.

Not because he suddenly appeared.

But because I finally noticed him.

And maybe that is my favourite version of love.

Not someone falling for the best parts of me.

Not someone staying because of the worst parts of me.

Just someone who saw all of it.

The dancing.

The crying.

The healing.

The becoming.

And chose to stay anyway.