I still remember the exact moment when things started to feel… different. I don't even know if I
should call it "love" right away, because that word feels heavy and formal, but there was
definitely something in the air. Something subtle, quiet, almost invisible, yet undeniable. That
moment came when I first started noticing Lucky - not just noticing, but analysing, imagining,
overthinking every interaction like it was a riddle I needed to solve. And of course, my
overthinking brain didn't just solve the riddle - it rewrote it, over and over, until every scenario
had at least fifty possible endings, all of them dramatic.
Our relationship started casually. Nothing grand or cinematic, because real life rarely is. We just
started talking more often, laughing at stupid jokes, and sharing little pieces of ourselves that
we didn't give to anyone else. I was obsessed with the details. Every word, every pause, every
little gesture became a signal I couldn't ignore. Did she like my sense of humour? Did she notice
the effort I put into being funny, even if I was just awkwardly trying? Every reply was analysed
like it held the secrets to the universe, and honestly, it drove me insane sometimes.
College added its own chaos. Being a first-year student, everything was new - hostel life,
lectures, friends, assignments, deadlines. And yet, none of that mattered as much as her
messages, her presence, her absence. I would sit in the lecture hall, pretending to take notes,
but mentally rehearsing texts in my head: "Did I overdo that emoji?" "Should I have said this
differently?" "What if she misunderstands my joke?" And of course, I never sent half of the
messages I thought about, because sending them would make the situation real, and my
overthinking self knew that reality was scarier than imagined scenarios.
And while all this happened, Phoenix - the world I created in my mind - started to take shape.
At first, it was just a refuge. A place where I could pour all my anxiety, all my fear of loss, and all
my wild imagination into something tangible. But soon, Phoenix became more than that - it
became a mirror. The characters I created were extensions of me, my emotions, my struggles,
and even my insecurities. Love, heartbreak, betrayal, triumph, tragedy - it all lived there, in
exaggerated, chaotic forms. I could kill characters, let them suffer, betray them, or let them find
a small sliver of happiness - but it was always intense. Nothing mild existed in Phoenix, and
neither did it in my head when I thought about Lucky.
The early days were beautiful in a way that only first love can be. There was excitement,
nervousness, and a strange sense of hope that filled me. But there was also fear - fear of
making mistakes, fear of losing her, fear of being too much or too little. And of course, my
overthinking brain could never let me experience anything in moderation. Every laugh was
analysed, every silence dissected. I was both thrilled and terrified, and sometimes I couldn't
even tell the difference.
One night, I remember sitting alone in my hostel room, laptop open, Phoenix half-written, and
my heart pounding because I hadn't heard from her for a few hours. Hours, not even a whole
day, but in my mind, it felt like an eternity. I imagined all sorts of scenarios: what if she was
upset? What if she was busy with someone else? What if she had changed her mind about us?
And while my heart raced, my fingers typed away, creating new characters, new tragedies, and
new impossible love stories in Phoenix. That's how my overthinking worked - it demanded an
outlet, a physical manifestation of my swirling thoughts, and writing became that outlet.
I also noticed my duality very early. There was the rational, reflective me who knew that most of
my fears were irrational, who understood that overthinking was just a trap, and who could see
that Lucky's silence was probably nothing. And then there was the restless, impulsive me, the
one who imagined the worst, who created villains, tragedies, and betrayals in Phoenix as a way
of testing reality, preparing for emotional disasters that might never come. The tension between
these two selves became both a curse and a gift. It fueled my writing, my imagination, and my
obsessive attention to detail in both life and Phoenix.
Even in the simplest moments, like walking across campus or sharing a casual joke in the mess
hall, my mind was working overtime. I imagined Phoenix scenarios where every casual smile or
glance held hidden meaning. I imagined tragedies waiting around the corner, love stories ending
too soon, betrayals from unexpected characters. In a way, I was constantly rehearsing life
through Phoenix, using it as a buffer against emotional unpredictability.
And yet, amidst all the chaos, there was hope. Lucky's patience, her small gestures, the way she
laughed at my jokes, the way she made time for me despite her own life - it anchored me. Even
when my overthinking threatened to spiral out of control, that hope kept me grounded. It
reminded me that love, even with all its uncertainty and risk, was worth enduring, worth
waiting for, worth obsessing over.
So that's how it began: a mix of love, overthinking, duality, and a fictional world that reflected
everything I couldn't say out loud. Phoenix became my mirror, my sanctuary, and my battlefield.
Lucky became both muse and anchor. And I? I became the observer, the writer, the overthinker,
trying to balance it all without losing myself completely.
That first chapter of my life, messy, chaotic, and intense, set the tone for everything that
followed. And little did I know, it was only the beginning of a journey filled with longing,
imagination, emotional storms, and lessons I would learn the hard way.
