I didn’t have a crush on a pop star. I didn’t tape magazine cutouts of actors to my bedroom wall. My first real, heart-squeezing, stomach-dropping crush was on the man who packed my school lunches and knew the exact way I liked my grilled cheese—diagonal cut, slightly burnt on the edges.
And I crushed, just a little, all over again.
And in that moment, I felt it: the crush. Not as desire. Not as romance. But as a kind of gravitational pull. The realization that this man—flawed, tired, sometimes grumpy, always trying—had built a world inside of me before I even had words for it. 315. Dad Crush
And I thought: Oh. There it is. Entry #315.
Let me be clear: this isn’t that kind of story. There’s no Freudian punchline, no scandal. It’s something quieter, and in its own way, more devastating. I didn’t have a crush on a pop star
The Dad Crush never really goes away. It just changes shape. It becomes less about idolizing him and more about forgiving him. Less about wanting him to be perfect, and more about being grateful that he stayed—hammer in hand, flannel soft, ready to guide one more swing.
He had softer hands now. More gray. Slower to get up from the floor after playing with the dog. And I crushed, just a little, all over again
The crush faded, as crushes do. By seventeen, I was annoyed by his dad jokes. By eighteen, I was embarrassed by his old sneakers. By twenty, I was gone to college, calling home once a week, keeping him on speaker while I scrolled my phone.
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