I shouldn’t be coming back here.
I know that.
I write it as if that changes anything.
The page is still open.
I didn’t close it properly last night.
I think I closed it.
But it’s here.
The tab.
At the top.
Still.
I look at it once.
Only once.
I close it.
I open it again.
I don’t know why I keep returning.
It’s not curiosity anymore.
That was earlier.
Now it’s something else.
I need to check if it still affects me.
If it still does something when I see it.
The cursor hesitates before I click.
Or maybe I do.
I open it.
The same paragraph.
The same order.
But something is slightly off.
A sentence I don’t remember reading like that.
I stop.
Read it again.
Close it.
Breathe.
The air feels like cold dust.
The room is normal.
Too normal.
The history shows the same time.
Twice.
That shouldn’t happen.
Or maybe it does.
I’m not sure when this started.
Maybe it was already open when I thought I closed it.
That’s the worst part.
Not the content.
The return.
I go back again.
Just to check.
Just one more time.
My hand moves before I decide.
That bothers me more than anything.
Because I didn’t choose it.
But it happened anyway.
The page loads.
And this time it feels weaker.
Or clearer.
I don’t know which one scares me more.
Close.
Open.
Close.
And I no longer know which was the first time.
Only that each time, I arrive a little after it already started waiting for me.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
