It’s Just a Little Crush

Date: 12/29/2025

I don’t know why I’m jealous, but Matt — from work, not my husband Mat — has bagged himself a new girlfriend, and she is hot AF (as the youth would say, moments before correcting my punctuation). Young. Carefree. Effortlessly gorgeous. Effortlessly hilarious. Effortlessly everything I am not. She’s also bang on trend. A real Jenna Ortega vibe. Wednesday Addams, for those of you who live under a rock. Gothic chic. Head-to-toe black — the kind of black that looks intentional, curated — but couldn’t look more adorable if she tried. God. Maybe I have a little girl crush. Eeeep. Abort. Abort. Stop the gushing. Too late. I’ve been partnered with her today, and she’s already showing me up at every conceivable opportunity. It’s no longer humbling — it’s competitive humiliation with a faint whiff of superiority. And now we’re standing beneath a large tree. Correction: she is standing beneath a large tree. I am standing beneath a large tree while my mailbag dangles from one of its branches like a pendulum of incompetence. Hung there, swaying gently. A parody. A cautionary tale. Perhaps I was delivering to a nest of birds. Perhaps I briefly forgot gravity existed and decided to challenge it publicly. My cheeks burn so hard I’m surprised they don’t scorch the bark. “How the hell?” she laughs. Even her laugh is unfair. Bright. Musical. Infectious. The sort of laugh you want to siphon into a vial and listen to on repeat when you’re alone in bed later. (Is that weird?) Yes. Definitely weird. Sunlight catches her face and I notice the details that feel almost cruel in their precision — warm, honey-kissed amber eyes. Freckles, barely there but absolutely intentional, scattered across the bridge of her nose like an artist couldn’t resist one final flourish. A nose piercing that screams effortless cool — the kind that would look tragic on me. Like I was trying too hard and failing publicly. She starts climbing the tree. Of course she does. A bloody hero as well. My hero. She scales it with monkey-level skill, no hesitation, no struggle, retrieves my mailbag, and tosses it down with effortless grace. For fuck’s sake. How is it possible to adore someone and resent them at the exact same time? Is there a German word for this? There must be. There’s always a German word for emotional masochism. She’s an enigma. A mystery wrapped in lead paper. A tough nut to crack — even with industrial-strength teeth. Naturally, I want to whip my nutcrackers out and give it a heroic go. Occasionally, a little more of her slips through. Cute as hell. A glimmer. A flash. It makes me want to squish those cherubic cheeks. I don’t, obviously. I’m not a sociopath. Just deeply misguided. Every now and then, it feels like we’re building something. Rapport. She tosses me a witty one-liner. Punches my arm affectionately. Drops a joke so sharp it could cut glass. She keeps calling us friends. But I know this isn’t real life. This is fantasy. A myth. Friendships like this don’t bloom out of thin air — especially not for me. They’re flimsy things, stitched together with paper-bag seams, and they always split at the bottom. Why would she even humour the idea of being friends with me? I’m not half the woman she is — despite being nearly twice her age. Side by side, it’s mortifying. Her innate ease. Her intelligence. Her charm. Her wit. She’s a rare charm in a world of generic, pattern-and-repeat clones. And me? I’m the clearance rack. It never bothered me when Matt dated his old girlfriend. Charlotte. Frumpy Charlotte. Cat-lady Charlotte. Charlotte who flirted dangerously with Münchausen’s. But this? How did he bag this beauty-on-legs? It’s not like he’s anything special himself. Just very tall. Moderately handsome. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Not even a solid nine out of ten. Nothing to write letters about — and yet, here I am mentally posting him handwritten sonnets of resentment with second-class stamps. Now my brain betrays me with images: gothic picnics. Black hampers. Seductive strawberry-feeding. Hands everywhere. Stop. Stop. Stop. I’ve done it again — lost my mind to the clouds — and somehow delivered an entire apartment block to the wrong address. All seventy-nine flats. Seven Stories of logistical shame. I only realise as I go to shove mail through number eighty. I exit the building wearing the expression of someone who has accidentally reversed over their neighbour’s dog and considered moving cities. “It’s okay,” my gothic angel says calmly. “We shall rectify it.” If she climbs any higher on the pedestal, she’s going to breach the stratosphere. My saviour. My angel. Together, we perform a covert operation — stealthily retrieving post from every letterbox with the grace of mildly apologetic ninjas. The usual complaints float by. “You’ve put someone else’s letter through my door!” Yes. I have. Again. What can I say? I’m consistent. Back at the van, I’m unloading the final parcels when reality glitches. The air shimmers. Something shifts. She’s gone. In her place stands an older gentleman with an uncanny resemblance to TV legend Roy Walker — Catchphrase era, minus the Scottish accent. Pleasant enough, if “pleasant” came bundled with an explosive device. He is a walking fire hazard. The walking Dictionary definition of Pyromaniac. Every time I look away, another parcel is on fire. Flames licking cardboard. Ash drifting like guilty consciences and unresolved childhood traumas. Royal Mail really does scrape the barrel. “Shall I take this one?” I ask, attempting to save a box mid-sentence. Too late. He incinerates it with a flamethrower. It lands at my feet, smouldering. “Dude,” I say. “What’s your deal?” “Yeah…” he mutters, staring at his shoes like a chastised child. “I might have issues.” No shit. Another flicker. He’s gone. She’s back. My gothic angel smiles — a smile that is half endearing, half run. “Amanda,” she says. “It’s been such a hoot working with you. You’re a legend. I don’t think I’ve belly-laughed like that in years.” The words wrap around me like a hug on a cold day. I let myself believe them. Just for a second. Long enough to feel warm. Then her face hardens. “But we aren’t friends,” she continues gently. “I could never be friends with someone like you.” There it is. The burn. I feel as scorched as the parcel smouldering at my feet. Hollowed. Reduced to ash. For a moment, I swear I see Roy Walker’s eyes staring back at me — dark, knowing, amused. Or maybe it’s only my own reflection, dressed up as revelation again. I’ve always had a talent for that — mistaking warmth for welcome, laughter for belonging. Lifting people higher than they ever asked to stand, looking up, bewildered, when they disappear from reach. Putting people on pedestals. Setting myself on fire.