I don’t know exactly when it started.
That’s what bothers me most.
Because if I could point to a specific day, a specific page, a specific sentence, then I could call it an influence.
Something that came from outside.
But it wasn’t like that.
I think it started with a word.
Just a word.
Obedience.
I saw it on a screen.
I wasn’t even looking for it.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
The strange thing is that I don’t remember the article.
I don’t remember the image.
I don’t remember who wrote it.
I only remember the word.
And I remember going back to it.
Then again.
And again.
As if there was something hidden behind it.
Like a song that gets stuck in your head and eventually you can’t tell whether you love it or whether it simply refuses to leave.
For weeks nothing happened.
Or so it seemed.
I read.
Closed the tab.
Went on with my day.
Worked.
Ate.
Answered messages.
Everything normal.
Then I started noticing something strange.
I always ended up reading the same texts.
Not the same topics.
The same texts.
As if I were searching for a specific sentence.
A sentence that never appeared.
One night I did something ridiculous.
I opened my browser history.
I wanted proof that I was exaggerating.
I wanted to see ten minutes here and there.
Nothing more.
The page took a second to load.
Then another.
Then another.
I remember the feeling perfectly.
Embarrassment.
Not because there was anything explicit there.
But because I wasn’t expecting so much.
There were pages.
Many.
More than I remembered.
More than I could justify.
I stared at one particular entry.
Nothing special about it.
Almost technical.
Almost boring.
But I had visited it six times.
Six.
I only remembered one.
I assumed it had to be a mistake.
The next day I checked again.
Still there.
Six visits.
The number didn’t change.
The feeling did.
Because I stopped asking what I was reading.
And started asking who exactly kept coming back.
There is a difference.
Not a huge one.
But enough.
The chair is still the same chair.
The lamp hasn’t moved.
The coffee stains are still spreading across the desk.
Nothing appears different.
And yet there are moments when I read a sentence and feel something close to recognition.
Not excitement.
Not yet.
It would be easier if it were only that.
It’s something else.
More uncomfortable.
Harder to explain.
Like finding a photograph of yourself from ten years ago and discovering an expression you still make today.
Something familiar.
Something that was already there.
A few days ago something absurd happened.
I was reading before bed.
Nothing intense.
Nothing new.
Then I found a highlighted sentence.
I didn’t remember marking it.
Weeks earlier, apparently, I had.
The sentence said:
“You’re not discovering anything.
You’re only finding the name.”
I froze.
Because I didn’t remember highlighting it.
But I immediately recognized the impulse that had guided my hand toward it.
It was exactly the same impulse I was feeling now.
As if a previous version of me had left a note behind.
As if it knew I would return.
The room was silent.
I could hear a pipe somewhere in the building.
A small metallic sound.
Regular.
And for the first time I felt that the problem wasn’t what I was reading.
The problem was that I understood less and less why I kept trying to stop reading it.
I closed the laptop.
Left it on the table.
Got up.
Walked to the kitchen.
Drank some water.
Came back.
The laptop was still closed.
But I already knew I was going to open it again.
Not because of curiosity.
Curiosity was already gone.
It was something worse.
Something more intimate.
More embarrassing.
The feeling that I was recognizing a part of myself that had been waiting a very long time to be alone with me.
And the strangest thing is that I wasn’t afraid.
I felt relieved.
That’s the part I still struggle to admit.
The door is still open.
That’s what worries me.
I have to move my neck…
