In my forties, I found myself gripped by emotions I thought I had long outgrown. Emotions that belong to a young man in his twenties—raw, irrational, romantic. And the most surprising part? They were not directed at someone I met, spoke to, or even exchanged a glance with across a crowded room. No. These emotions bloomed quietly and obsessively for a woman whose Instagram profile crossed my path in the most random way.

It’s been thirty years since I first touched the internet. Twenty years since I created my first social media profile. And yet here I am, in 2025, still not immune to the silent force of online illusion posing as connection. My mind spins for someone I’ll never meet. My chest tightens at the post of someone who doesn’t even know I exist. A stranger, and still—so strangely familiar.

Why?

That’s the question I’ve been turning over in my head. The answer, I believe, lies not just in the beauty of her eyes, though she is—undeniably—beautiful. It’s in the way she curates her world. The images she shares are not just pictures. They carry a tone, a texture, a rhythm. Often paired with music. A melody meets a visual, and suddenly my heart responds as if this digital post was made to tease my patience.

She’s not just sharing her life. She’s building a story. And somewhere between those curated visuals and that accidental poetry, I’ve created a character in my mind. A woman of depth. Kind. Curious. A little melancholy. Possibly brilliant. Definitely someone whose eyes feel like home, even though I’ve never stood in front of them. Her gaze doesn’t pierce the screen—it melts it. I find myself staring into them longer than I should, not because of what they reveal, but because of what they conceal. Something in those eyes whispers, “The steps to a sacred dance only the lost can follow.

But how could I? Every post, every quote about the universe or soul or solitude could be an echo of my own beliefs—or a complete accident. Yet, I cling to the version of her that lives in my imagination. Not because I’m naive. Not because I mistake illusion for truth. But because I find something sacred in the fantasy itself.

I’ve probably only seen 0.2% of who she really is. The rest? It’s mine. A projection. A dream. But strangely, I don’t feel the urge to shatter it. I’m not writing this to warn myself. I don’t want to snap out of it. I don’t want to DM her, meet her, or even hear her voice. That would collapse the cathedral I’ve built in my mind. I want her to remain exactly where she is—on the screen, in the cloud, untouched by the clumsy chaos of real life.

And I’ll admit it—it’s selfish. She’s a muse I never asked for. Her existence, her digital presence, inspires something in me. A desire to act beautifully. To speak more gently. To create more art. She becomes like the sunset I pass on my daily walks—glorious, unreachable, and whole. I don’t want to capture it or bring it home. I want it to remain free, luminous, distant. The flower I notice in a field—its beauty is enough. I don’t need to pick it to know that it made my day better.

And maybe that’s what this whole experience is teaching me. That not everything beautiful is meant to be possessed. Some things exist purely to remind us that beauty is still out there. That inspiration can come from a place where nothing tangible exists. And when it does, it’s not just for us to keep—it’s ours to pass on.

So here I am, quietly keeping the chain alive. The way she’s inspired me, perhaps I can do the same for someone else. Maybe without even knowing it, I already am.

Because sometimes, it’s not about meeting the muse. It’s about becoming one.