LA ENCULADA

When you love something, you love it all the way. Not halfway, not casually, not with one foot out the door. You go in. The playlist, the deep dive, the three-hour conversation, the thing you think about first thing in the morning and last thing before you fall asleep.
Amiga, that kind of intensity is a gift. Most people never feel anything that hard.
But sometimes the thing you're holding onto stopped holding you back a while ago.

The one who held on so tight the thing changed shape.

Somewhere you learned that love was supposed to feel like a hurricane. Quiet love looked like indifference. If it didn't consume you, it didn't count. So you turned the volume all the way up and called it passion.
You weren't wrong about the feeling. You were wrong about the volume.

You check. You refresh. You replay. You wrote the text, deleted the text, rewrote the text. You know their schedule better than your own. You have a theory about what they meant when they said "okay" instead of "ok."
Your focus is sharp. It's just pointed at one thing.

That's not desperate. That's someone who learned that if you let go, the thing disappears. If you stop paying attention, it leaves. So you held tighter. You watched closer. You made sure nothing slipped through your hands because everything important always had before.
The grip was the love language. It just started leaving marks.

The thing you love most will not disappear if you look away for a day. And if it does, the grip was never what kept it. You are allowed to care deeply and still put your phone in the other room.
You already know how to love hard. The intensity was never the problem.

You go all the way in. That's not a flaw. Most people never feel anything that hard.
But the intensity was never the problem. The grip is.
What happens if you put the phone down for one day? Not to let go. Just to see if it's still there when you look back.