The page is open again.
I don’t remember opening it.
I only remember the previous gesture: closing the laptop too hard, as if that could cut more than just the session.
But the screen is already on.
The same article.
The same highlighted paragraph.
The same fragment about Sade and the body as a record.
I shouldn’t be here.
That’s the first thought.
The second is worse: I had already read it before recognizing it.
I scroll up.
Once.
Then again.
I’m not looking for new information.
I’m looking for the exact moment it stopped feeling new.
I can’t find it.
The page doesn’t change.
But something in me does.
I close the tab.
I really close it.
I check.
Once.
Then I reopen it to make sure it was actually closed.
It’s open.
Or it was.
I don’t know the order anymore.
I write down the time.
I look at the note.
I look at it again because I don’t remember writing it.
The handwriting is mine.
That’s the uncomfortable part.
Not the content.
The handwriting.
Today I tried not to go back.
Not to enter.
Not to search.
I left my phone far away.
Too far.
As if distance could solve anything.
But after a few minutes I was already standing again.
No decision.
Just movement.
The browser was already open before I thought about opening it.
That’s what unsettles me.
Not curiosity.
But the speed at which it happens before I can even name it curiosity.
I’ve read three different articles.
I think.
Or maybe the same one three times with slight variations.
There are sentences I recognize before they fully appear.
As if the text arrives slightly after me.
Or I arrive slightly after the text.
I’m not sure which is more accurate.
Sometimes I think I’m just checking something.
But I don’t know what.
And that’s the worst part.
Because every check produces an answer too precise to be coincidence.
And at the same time too familiar to be discovery.
It’s not that I learn something.
It’s that I recognize it.
Before.
Always before.
I close it again.
This time I don’t check.
I wait a few seconds.
The cursor is still blinking on a page I don’t remember opening.
And yet I already know what’s under the next scroll.
I don’t scroll.
Not yet.
But I already know what I would see.
And that makes me unsure whether I already have.
My neck I should…
