I shouldn’t be reading this again.
That was the first thing I thought.
Or maybe the second.
Because by the time I noticed, the page was already open.
Again.
I don’t know exactly when it started.
That’s the part that bothers me most.
Not what I’m reading.
Not what I’m looking for.
But not remembering when I started coming back.
At first it was curiosity.
Nothing more.
An article.
An interview.
A story written by someone who seemed to understand something I didn’t.
I closed it.
Went on with my day.
Or at least I thought I did.
Because that night I came back.
Just for a few minutes.
Just to check something.
I don’t remember what.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
What matters is that I came back.
And I’ve kept doing it ever since.
Today I caught myself opening my history.
I wasn’t looking for anything.
At least that’s what I told myself.
But my fingers seemed to know the route.
Like walking home and realizing you don’t remember the last few turns.
The page appeared.
The same one.
Again.
I felt embarrassed.
A quiet embarrassment.
A small one.
Not because of the content.
Because of the repetition.
I’ve started noticing strange things.
Not big things.
Small ones.
Worse.
Much worse.
A sentence I remember differently.
A photograph that may have changed.
Or maybe I’m the one seeing it differently.
A paragraph I’m certain I never read.
Even though it’s highlighted.
By me.
Sometimes I close everything.
Shut down the computer.
Turn my phone face down.
Try to forget it.
For a few hours it works.
More or less.
Then a question appears.
A tiny one.
A ridiculous one.
What if there was something else?
What if I misunderstood that sentence?
What if this time I notice something I missed before?
Then I go back.
I always go back.
What scares me isn’t what I find.
It’s the relief I feel when I find it exactly where I expected it to be.
As if some part of me needs confirmation that it’s still there.
That it hasn’t disappeared.
That I still react the same way.
Or worse.
Yesterday I sat staring at the screen without reading.
Just staring.
There was dust floating in front of the monitor’s light.
Tiny particles.
Turning slowly.
I remember thinking that was exactly what was happening to me.
Nothing seemed to move.
And yet everything kept changing.
I don’t know if I’m learning anything.
I don’t know if I’m discovering anything.
Every day I’m less certain of both.
The only thing I know is that I keep returning.
And every return feels less like a decision.
Maybe that’s the part I don’t want to admit.
That what I’m reading no longer worries me.
What worries me is how much I need to check it.
Because I’m beginning to suspect something.
Something I’d rather not write down.
That curiosity disappeared a long time ago.
And that I’m still here for another reason.
A reason that probably began long before I had a name for it.
Nothing has happened.
That is the strange part.
Nothing.
And yet I have spent the entire afternoon thinking about it.
I am not waiting for a message.
Or a date.
Or a session.
None of that exists yet.
I am only reading.
At least that is what I keep telling myself.
There is dust gathered along the edge of my monitor.
Every few minutes I run my finger through the same spot.
Without noticing.
By the time I realize it, I have already done it again.
The room is quiet.
An ordinary silence.
But I am starting to recognize things inside it.
The refrigerator in the distance.
A car passing outside.
The faint hum of the screen.
They were there last night too.
I do not know why I remember that.
What worries me is not what I am reading.
It is how long I have been reading it.
Because I could swear it has only been twenty minutes.
Then I check the clock.
More than an hour has passed.
I check again.
I always check again.
A few days ago I was just looking for information.
That was all.
Information.
Curiosity.
Now there are moments when I open the browser before deciding to open it.
That sentence makes no sense.
I know.
But neither does feeling this kind of anticipation for something that has not even happened yet.
There is a small stain beside the door frame.
I do not remember noticing it before.
Now I see it constantly.
Like the time.
Like the open tabs.
Like that feeling in my stomach.
Small things.
Too small.
Sometimes I close everything.
Stand up.
Walk into the kitchen.
Drink water.
And a few minutes later I come back.
Not because I want to.
Because I need to check something.
I do not know what.
Just something.
Maybe that it is still there.
Maybe that I am still there.
I am beginning to think waiting is not about expecting something.
I am beginning to think waiting is about returning.
Returning to check.
Returning to make sure curiosity is still where I left it.
And every time I return I find something different.
Not on the screen.
Inside myself.
I need to move my neck.
I am not moving it.
I need to close this page.
I am not closing it.
And what embarrasses me most is not that I am interested.
It is the feeling that I started waiting for something before I knew exactly what I was waiting for.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
