The page is still open.
I don’t remember leaving it like this.
That’s the first thing that bothers me.
Not the content.
The fact that I can’t remember the simplest action.
Closing it.
—
I shouldn’t be here again.
I think it while I’m already inside.
That’s the strange part.
The decision doesn’t come before.
It comes after.
As if I’m only confirming something that already happened without me.
—
I come back to check.
Not to read.
I tell myself that slowly, like it helps.
To check.
That’s all.
But every check leaves a small difference.
Tiny.
Almost nothing.
And still enough.
—
The air in the room feels drier.
I don’t even know if it is.
I only notice it now.
That also embarrasses me.
Noticing things too late.
Or too often.
—
There is dust on the edge of the keyboard.
It wasn’t there before.
I think.
I touch it once.
Then again.
I wasn’t cleaning it.
I was checking if it would change.
—
“I shouldn’t come back to this.”
I write it in my mind.
But it no longer sounds like a warning.
It sounds like something that repeats itself.
Without me.
—
I close the tab.
I open it again.
Just to see if I really closed it.
And at that point the doubt is no longer technical.
It is personal.
—
I don’t know when I started returning before deciding to return.
That’s the part I can’t hold for long.
Because if that is true, then I am not the one initiating the gesture.
I only arrive at it too late.
—
The screen is still.
Too still.
That shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
—
My hand is on the mouse before I think of it.
There is no clear decision.
Only continuity.
—
And the worst part is this:
I no longer know if I’m checking the page.
Or if the page is checking whether I’m still someone who returns.
I shouldn’t be writing this.
Not because it is wrong.
But because writing it feels like I am exposing myself.
The first thing that fails is not the system.
It is me trying to describe it without it sounding like mine.
I say “the bite.”
But I say it as if I were not there.
As if someone else occupied my place at that moment.
And the worst part is: that distance is not fake.
It is the only stable thing.
I remember the pressure.
But not as something that happened.
More like something my body understood before I did.
And now I have to follow that body’s trace.
There is a part of me that wants to correct what I am saying.
Not for accuracy.
For shame.
The jaw is not the important part.
The important part is that I still react to it even when it is not there.
And I no longer know if that is memory or conditioning.
It is strange to write something in which I am not fully the subject.
Sometimes “I experienced it” does not fit anymore.
It should be: “something in me recorded it.”
But even that feels too clean.
The image is not the bite.
It is me trying not to think about it.
And failing in a very quiet way.
There are moments where I stop writing.
Not because I don’t know what comes next.
But because I know what I am about to admit.
The worst part is not the pain.
It is how my memory organizes it without asking me.
As if I am not the editor.
Only the storage space.
The neck is not a scene.
It is a sentence that keeps returning even when I change topic.
And each time it appears, I wonder if I am remembering it or replaying it.
I start to suspect I am not describing a system.
I am describing a version of myself that agrees with it.
And that is what disturbs me.
Because if that is true, there is no distance.
Only variations of consent I do not remember giving.
There is no closure.
Only this attempt to write it without it becoming a confession.
I have to move my neck…
