First off, smash that guilt. You’re not a broken man.
Crushes don’t come with medals of honor. You didn’t lose a war, you got caught staring at a mirage in a bar fight and mistook it for a trophy. The problem isn’t her being gay. The problem is you’re treating your stupid crush like it’s some kind of moral failure. This isn’t about failure—it’s about survival. If you let this fantasy strangle you, you’ll die choking on your own weakness.
Relabel it as a crave, not some twisted “love” fantasy. You’re playing war games with no weapons.
You think this is love? Ha. Love is your blood in the sand to protect someone. This is you sniffing around a campfire with a half-baked delusion that she’s your queen. That’s limerence—fancy name for a dumbass craving. You had ten seconds of eye contact and suddenly you’re Shakespeare. Grow up. Label it for what it is: a temporary high, not a soul-deep connection. Call it the “crave,” and you’ve already won half the battle.
Stop feeding the wolf. It’s not your fault you got caught in this trap—until it is.
She’s not a villain. She’s just not your match. You built a goddamn castle in the clouds out of what—two conversations and a ride in a car? Pathetic. Every time you think, “Oh, what if this could work?” you’re handing victory notes to your imagination. Crushes die when you stop watering them with shame. Stop analyzing her like she’s a code to crack. She’s just another friend—no more, no less.
Beat this or be buried by it. Here’s the brutal truth: your brain is a rat trap.
Your body is wired to chase what it can’t have. That’s why you’re still thinking about her like she’s the last drop of water in a desert. Don’t thank your brain for that—it’s working to keep you as its puppet. The second you let that crush own you, you’re a prisoner. You think being friends with her gives you cover? It just gives you a longer leash to choke yourself.
Forgive yourself or rot on a hook. Guilt is a knife you’re carving into your own ribs.
Yes, you overthought it. Yes, you let your stupid head turn her into a goddess. Accept that. What’s done is done. You didn’t do anything illegal or disgraceful—that’s the last thing you need to be punishing yourself for. Crushes are for kids with no poker face. If shame is your weapon, you’re already dead. Laugh at the embarrassment, but only after you’ve killed the crush.
Focus on what you can control and forget the rest. Your life isn’t a soap opera.
You’re still friends—use that. Act like a man, not a lovesick ghost. Show up, joke around, and stop acting like every text from her is a test. If you keep treating her presence like a war with yourself, you’ll lose your damn mind. The crush isn’t a monster—you’re not fighting a beast, you’re fighting your own damn brain.
Enjoy the friendship or burn it. Let her be a person, not a project.
If you can’t act normal around her, you’re not ready. Act normal or walk away. Let that friendship become something real, not a cursed trophy your brain won’t release. Every moment you waste pretending to be okay with this pain, you’re just proving how weak you think you are. Be strong enough to enjoy her for who she is—and forget the fantasy you invented.
Stop being a pawn. You don’t need permission to move on.
You’re not broken. You’re just caught in a phase, not unlike a man trying to flex his muscles in a mirror for the first time—pathetic, but not terminal. Crushes end the second you stop pretending they’re something epic. Tear down your fantasy kingdom. Burn the blueprints. If you want to be friends, act like a friend. If you want to forget, stop letting your brain treat this as a war. It’s over when you decide it is—but you’ve got to pull your own damn trigger.
Wrap up your mess before it eats you. This isn’t a tragedy—your pride is too big for that.
She’ll still be your friend. You’ll still walk the same streets. What changes is your brain. You can’t control who gives you a crush, but you can control who gives you a future. If you want to be someone with real power, stop letting this crush run the show. Crushes fade when you stop chasing them like a junkie in a mirror. Grow up or rot in your own delusion.
Final lesson: Pain is for cowards. Men make pain extinct.
You still think this is a big deal? Good. It’s supposed to feel like a wound. Every man hits a wall of pain like this at least once. Look at the wall. It’s not the size that matters—it’s what you do after you crash into it. Crushes don’t define you. Your refusal to let them own you does. Stop being the guy who let a fantasy ruin his damn day. Be the man who smokes it out with cold, hard action.