Help, I’m in Love With a Man Who Doesn’t Exist

I’m sitting at my desk, looking at my mousepad. A gift from my husband, because the man understands the depths of my nonsense.  Printed across it, in all their tragic, leather-clad glory:  Damon Salvatore, eternally smirking. Dean Winchester, lounging on the hood of his Impala and Spike, probably mid-monologue about how love is pain, fire, and eternal damnation.

I glance around my space. Two lifesize cutouts of Sam and Dean stand in my living room, staring judgmentally at my life choices. A photo collage of me and Edward Cullen, gifted by a friend who clearly knows my emotional priorities. A Peter Steele art print. A Ville Valo poster from 2003 (original BRAVO edition) pinned to my corkboard, because teenage me was correct about everything.

And here’s the thing.  I am a functioning adult (mostly). I have a loving husband (who enables this madness).  I am a not-too-embarrassing mother (again, mostly). I pay my bills. I drink water. I hold a job.  

And yet, no real man will ever compare to the fictional ones who live rent-free in my ADHD-riddled brain. 

Listen, I don’t just like characters. I imprint on them like a baby duck on a pair of Doc Martens. It’s not a casual interest – it’s a full-blown, dopamine-fuelled obsession that involves: 

• Rewatching the same five scenes on loop like they contain the meaning of life. 
• Tracking down every piece of obscure fan content like an archaeologist on a mission. 
• Crafting entire narratives in my head where we would absolutely fall in love (while maintaining my actual real-life marriage). 
• Deep, emotional devastation over their fictional struggles as if they are my personal responsibility.  

It’s not a crush. It’s a condition.

Some people grow out of their teenage obsessions. I collect mine like relics of past heartbreak. Here are just a few of the fictional bastards who have personally victimized me over the years:  

• Rupert Blackmore – My current hyperfixation and the reason this book exists. Gothic, brooding, emotionally repressed, and utterly doomed. If he were real, he’d be the one standing in the rain, staring at a window, refusing to knock.
• Peter Steele – Oh, he was real, but the obsession? Eternal. Deep voice? Tragic poet energy? A walking vampire aesthetic? Immediate, lifelong problem.
• Damon Salvatore – A man who literally killed people and yet had the audacity to be the most charming bastard on television. “Hello, brother”? Ruined me.
• Dean Winchester – Just a blue-collar, emotionally repressed, classic rock-loving angel-disaster with daddy issues who didn’t deserve half the pain he got.
• Ville Valo – Again, real, but you don’t understand, mother, it wasn’t just a phase.
• Spike – “You’re the one, Buffy.” NEED I SAY MORE?
• Edward Cullen – Look. LOOK. I KNOW. But if you tell me Twilight didn’t own you in 2008, you’re lying to me and yourself.  

 And yet, despite this long and deeply concerning list, my brain still demands new fictional men to ruin me.

I used to think my obsession with tragic, impossible men was just a personal quirk. Turns out? It’s ADHD’s fault. People with ADHD hyperfixate on things that bring them dopamine.  And what brings me dopamine? (Fictional) men who are emotionally unavailable but devastatingly compelling. 

And so, because my brain works in incomprehensible ways, I didn’t just fixate on my latest fictional man. I created him. Rupert Blackmore. The unholy fusion of everything I’ve ever loved in a gothic, tragic character.  

• Brooding bartender in a godforsaken village pub.
• Tall, broad, entirely too attractive for his own good.
• Sarcastic, emotionally unavailable, but secretly full of feelings.
• Definitely hiding something.
• Definitely the reason I’m writing like I’ve been possessed by my own book. 

And here’s the real kicker.  This book? It’s not just a romance. It’s a love letter. A deep, slow-burn, dry-humored, folklore-drenched, aching testament to every (fictional) man I’ve ever loved.

It’s for every woman who never quite grew out of her teenage obsessions.  

It’s for the ones who still keep a candlelit shrine to their favorite characters. 

It’s for the metal moms explaining Type O Negative to their kids. 

It’s for the Buffy nerds who will absolutely clock every reference I’ve hidden in these pages.  

And it’s for me. Because my brain won’t let me let this go until I finish this story.  Until I give Rupert Blackmore the ending he deserves.  Until I write the book that past-me always wanted to read.  

So If You Also Love (Fictional) Men Too Much… Welcome.

If you have ever:  

• Felt an unreasonable amount of emotion for a character who doesn’t exist. 
• Built an entire personality trait around a dead rockstar.
• Fallen into a black hole of edits, fanfics, and late-night deep dives into obscure lore.
• Felt like real men were just slightly disappointing in comparison. 

Then congratulations, my friend. You are home. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to writing the perfect fictional man.  

(And possibly rewatching a Damon Salvatore edit for the 70th time.)