I don’t think the obsession is him.
It would be easier if it were.
I could reduce it to a person.
A presence.
A specific story.
But the obsession lives somewhere else.
It lives inside the waiting.
And that’s the part I’m ashamed to admit.
Because when I try to explain it out loud, it sounds ridiculous.
It sounds empty.
It sounds as though nothing is happening.
And yet that’s where everything happens.
Not during his words.
Not during his corrections.
Not even during those strange moments when I feel he has seen something in me that I hadn’t noticed myself.
It’s afterward.
Always afterward.
When he’s gone.
When there are no new instructions.
No new signs.
When the process continues somewhere beyond my sight.
That’s when I start thinking about him with a precision that frightens me.
I don’t remember entire conversations.
I remember details.
Small, absurd details.
A specific silence.
A breath.
A sentence that seemed insignificant at the time and still keeps growing inside me weeks later, as though it never finished being said.
Entire days disappear.
Those details remain.
And they don’t remain still.
They work.
They rearrange themselves.
They connect to one another.
As if my mind were trying to reconstruct something enormous from tiny fragments.
The strange thing is that I don’t want it to end.
That’s the part I never say.
Because I should want answers.
I should want certainty.
I should want closure.
But I don’t.
The ending always seems less interesting than the moment immediately before it.
That instant when something remains unresolved.
Something remains unfinished.
Something remains just beyond reach.
That’s where I get trapped.
Not in arrival.
In approach.
In the feeling of slowly moving toward a door that may not even exist.
Sometimes I try to resist.
I try to recover normal proportions.
I try to think about other things.
Work.
Projects.
Real people.
But all it takes is one small image for everything to return.
The way he looked at something.
The way he corrected a sentence.
The patience he seemed to have for waiting until exactly the right moment.
And then the feeling comes back.
The same feeling.
As if something were still happening.
As if part of me remained suspended inside that process.
Waiting.
Not for an order.
Not for approval.
Not for an ending.
Only for the next movement.
Because what obsesses me isn’t knowing how it ends.
It’s knowing that it hasn’t ended yet.
And the longer that uncertainty survives, the larger it becomes.
It begins as a thought.
Then it becomes a habit.
Then a presence.
And finally a kind of silent gravity around which everything else starts to orbit.
The worst part—or perhaps the best—is that I’m not even sure I want to escape.
Because there is something deeply comforting about imagining that the process is still advancing somewhere beyond my sight.
That there is still one final review.
One final adjustment.
One final observation that has not yet happened.
And as long as that possibility exists, I don’t have to become entirely my own again.
In the end, the obsession is not about reaching the end of his process.
It’s about remaining close enough to feel that the process still exists.
As if waiting were a warm room where nothing has been resolved and, precisely because of that, nothing has truly ended.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
