The worst part is that I don’t like admitting it.
Not even here.
Not even when I’m alone.
Because if someone asked me what I’m actually looking for, I wouldn’t have an answer that didn’t sound ridiculous.
I don’t want to obey.
I don’t want to belong to anyone.
I don’t like the idea of submission.
And yet something happens whenever he appears that makes all those explanations useless.
It isn’t something dramatic.
It never is.
It’s always something small.
The way he pauses for a few seconds before opening a door.
The absent-minded gesture of rolling up his sleeves.
Details so insignificant that I’m embarrassed to remember them.
But I do remember them.
I remember them better than things that happened yesterday.
And that’s what worries me.
Because I start forgetting entire conversations.
I start forgetting names.
I start forgetting whole days.
Yet I can perfectly reconstruct the movement of his hands during an ordinary afternoon months ago.
It shouldn’t be like that.
And yet it is.
Sometimes I think the obsession began the day I realized that he always seemed to be doing something I couldn’t quite see.
It wasn’t mystery.
It wasn’t performance.
It was worse.
It was natural.
As if part of his process was never meant for me.
And the more I tried to understand it, the further outside I remained.
So I started watching.
At first out of curiosity.
Then out of habit.
Then because I no longer knew how to stop.
I didn’t watch the important things.
I watched the small ones.
The speed at which he turned a page.
The precise pause before answering a question.
The way his attention disappeared for a few seconds when he was thinking about something else.
I never knew what that something else was.
I still don’t.
But I think that’s where it started.
Not knowing.
Being left outside.
Understanding that there was a distance I would never cross.
Because obsession is not born from what is understood.
It is born from what remains unfinished.
And he always remained unfinished.
Sometimes I would get something.
A glance.
A sentence.
Some tiny invisible adjustment in the way he spoke to me.
And for a few minutes I would feel closer.
As if I had finally synchronized.
As if I had finally found the correct rhythm.
Then he would disappear again.
He would become someone thinking thoughts I could not reach.
And everything would start over.
The ridiculous part is that I don’t want more.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
I don’t want love.
I don’t want approval.
I don’t want possession.
The only thing I want is to remain in front of him when he reaches the end of something.
I don’t know what that something is.
I never have.
But it exists.
I see it when he finally looks up after concentrating for hours.
I see it when tension leaves his body.
I see it when something invisible finally clicks into place.
And every time I think the same thing.
Every single time.
I wish I could stay there.
Exactly there.
In that moment.
When there is nothing left to adjust.
When the process is over.
When he is no longer searching for anything.
And neither am I.
Because I suspect this obsession has never really been about getting closer to him.
It has been about surviving long enough to see how he finishes.
And I’m embarrassed to admit that if I ever understood him completely, I would probably lose interest.
Because what keeps me here is not the answer.
It’s the interval.
The distance.
The inaccessible part of him.
The part that still makes me look.
I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
