When you finally lock eyes on a good one—someone who actually clicks—you move with care. No sudden gestures, no desperate energy. Just steady, deliberate pursuit. You’ve calibrated every word, every step, so as not to spook the rare creature worth the pursuit.
Then, right as things start aligning, the on-lookers materialize from the shadows. The ones who never noticed before. The ones who passed you by when you were invisible. Now they swarm, suddenly loud, suddenly entitled, as if your attention was a public resource they’re owed a cut of.
Try to brush them off politely? They turn feral. Agitated, indignant, even hostile—like you’ve committed some grave betrayal by choosing quality over their noise. Their egos bruise easy when the spotlight shifts.
It’s the same old story: scarcity makes value obvious, and nothing stings quite like watching someone else claim what they ignored. The jealous chorus always sings loudest once the song is no longer for them.