I never thought I’d find myself sitting across from my little cousin, watching them spiral into a melodramatic abyss after being blocked by none other than Taylor Swift’s mod team, but here we are. Their search history is now a chaotic testament to their emotional turbulence, with gems like “how to move on from a celebrity crush” and “why does rejection hurt worse than stepping on Lego.” I almost wish I could frame it for posterity.

The thing about celebrity crushes is, they sneak up on you. Or, well, on my cousin, in this case. One moment, they were casually enjoying Taylor’s music—pressing repeat on “All Too Well” like it was their personal anthem—and the next, they were immersed in interviews, red carpet appearances, and Instagram photos, dissecting every detail like a scholar analyzing ancient texts. The way Taylor looked into the camera during one of her interviews? Oh, to them, it wasn’t just a passing glance. It was a cosmic signal—a celestial wink that screamed, “I see your soul, and we are destined to collaborate on playlists and life goals.”

Of course, reality is a merciless buzzkill. That fantasy bubble my cousin had built, reinforced with every meticulously liked Instagram post and tweet of admiration, popped in the most spectacularly abrupt way. It started with a harmless attempt to interact—a tweet about Taylor’s last outfit being the pinnacle of human achievement. Innocent, right? But then, bam! The mod team swooped in like an unrelenting force of nature, banishing them from the digital kingdom. Blocked. Gone. Poof. No explanation. Not even the courtesy of a goodbye emoji. And so, here they sit, surrounded by an army of empty coffee cups and crumpled tissues, lamenting their fate like a character in a Greek tragedy.

“Why me?” they wail, waving their phone like it holds the answers to the universe. “What did I do to deserve this?” Their anguish is almost poetic, if you squint hard enough and ignore the fact that they’re wearing mismatched socks and a coffee-stained hoodie. I try to remind them, gently, that Taylor Swift probably didn’t even see the tweet, but suggesting such logic feels like stomping on their already bruised feelings. They look at me like I’ve just declared that gravity is optional—like I’m the one who personally hit the block button.

What followed was, frankly, a wild ride through the stages of grief. Denial came first, naturally. “It’s probably just a mistake,” my cousin insisted, shaking their phone as if that would magically undo the block. “I bet I got caught up in some sort of algorithmic sweepstakes. It’s not real. It can’t be.” But as the hours stretched into days, their denial began to crumble under the weight of the cold, hard evidence. The block was as unyielding as their feelings for Taylor.

Then came anger. And oh, the anger was glorious. Not at Taylor—never at Taylor—but at the faceless mod team who dared to extinguish their harmless adoration like snuffing out a candle. My friend concocted elaborate fantasies of these mods sitting in a dimly lit server room, cackling as they hit the “block” button, completely oblivious to the emotional carnage they left in their wake. It was dramatic, yes. Is she young, yes. But watching them rant and rave was also weirdly entertaining. I couldn’t help but picture them storming into said server room with a cape and a justice monologue.

At first, having a celebrity crush feels like a harmless, whimsical little indulgence. You binge-watch their interviews, laugh at their jokes as though they’re speaking directly to you, and convince yourself that the way they looked into the camera that one time *meant something*. It’s exhilarating. You start to feel like maybe this isn’t just a delusion; maybe, just maybe, you’re spiritually aligned—soulmates, really—if only the universe would stop conspiring to keep you apart. But then reality, the cold, unfeeling buzzkill it is, barges in. They don’t even know you exist. And worse, now their mod team has actively ensured that you never will.

Acceptance, as it turns out, is a fickle visitor. My cousin has begun to embrace their exile with the reluctant grace of a banished poet. They’ve taken to journaling their thoughts, penning dramatic odes to Taylor and her mod team, as though they’re writing the prelude to a modern epic. Some of these entries verge on self-parody, with titles like “Ode to the Block Button” and “In the Shadow of Reputation.” I’ve seen drafts where they half-seriously propose constructing a shrine to the “mod gods” in hopes of appeasing these enigmatic gatekeepers of digital celebrity sanctity.

And yet, amidst the chaos, I see glimmers of growth. They’ve discovered new hobbies—painting abstract tributes to Taylor’s lyrics in chaotic swirls of color, dabbling in poetry that teeters between heartbreak and humor. There’s a catharsis to their creativity, as if transforming their anguish into art is the only way forward. “It’s therapeutic,” they tell me with a newfound air of wisdom, though their mismatched socks and perpetually coffee-stained hoodie betray the lingering traces of melodrama.

Still, I can’t help but admire their resilience. In their own quirky way, they’re finding meaning in the absurdity of it all, navigating the cosmic joke that is unrequited admiration for a celebrity. As they sketch yet another masterpiece titled “Blocked but Unbroken,” I realize that maybe, just maybe, they’re learning to laugh at the situation. And perhaps that’s the truest sign of healing—finding humor in the very thing that once felt like the end of the world. At least once she grows up a bit. Though I did find that this is adults to, just maybe a bit less drama.