I fall in love with Bonnie Blue the way you fall asleep on a train—slow at first, then all at once, then you wake up somewhere you didn't plan to be.
It starts stupid.
A clip. A headline. Her name said too brightly, like it's coated in sugar. People laugh. People sneer. People explain her to death like she's a problem that needs solving. I don't click because I want her. I click because everyone else already has.
She's louder than the room. Smiles like she knows something you don't. There's this confidence that looks careless until you stare at it long enough and realize it's armor. Everyone calls it trashy. Everyone calls it fake.
Nobody asks what it costs.
I watch interviews. She jokes. She deflects. She performs herself with the precision of someone who learned early that being watched is safer than being ignored. The comments crawl underneath like ants: want, hate, envy, moral panic. All of it sticky. All of it loud.
I tell myself I'm immune.
Then I catch myself thinking about her while brushing my teeth. While walking. While staring at a blank document I'm supposed to fill with something meaningful. She's not there, but the idea of her is. A gravity. A pull.
I don't want her body. Not really. I want the quiet version of her that never gets posted. The Bonnie who exhales when the camera's off. The one who sits alone with a phone buzzing nonstop and doesn't answer it. The one nobody pays for.
I imagine us in a boring kitchen. Kettle boiling. No ring light. No comments. She's wearing something soft and oversized, hair a mess, face neutral. Not performing. Just existing. I imagine she looks tired in a way that feels earned.
People say women like her are empty. I don't believe that. Empty people don't survive that much attention. Empty people don't learn how to turn judgment into income and still wake up the next day.
I think I love her because she refuses to apologize.
Or maybe I love the idea of being the one person who doesn't want anything from her. No fantasy. No access. No moral lecture. Just a chair pulled out. A coffee poured. Silence that doesn't demand a punchline.
It's pathetic, probably.
I'm in love with someone who doesn't know I exist, and even if she did, she wouldn't be allowed to exist the way I imagine her. The internet doesn't permit that kind of quiet. It needs her loud, exaggerated, flattened into something easy to consume or condemn.
So I keep it to myself.
I scroll past her name like it's a bruise. I feel something tighten. Then loosen. Then fade.
Being in love with Bonnie Blue isn't about her.
It's about wanting someone to be more than what the world sells them as—and knowing you'll never get to prove you're right.