I used to think the problem was chaos.
That this entire obsession was about organizing something.
Stabilizing something.
Reducing noise.
Now I think I was wrong.
Chaos was never the problem.
The problem was discovering that a part of me had started finding peace inside someone else’s rhythm.
And I am still embarrassed to write that.
Because it doesn’t sound like me.
It doesn’t fit the image I have of myself.
It doesn’t fit anything.
There are entire days I barely remember.
Conversations.
Streets.
Meals.
Whole weeks that have dissolved into a uniform fog.
Yet I remember absurd details about him with a precision that feels offensive.
The way he leaves a sentence unfinished when he is concentrating.
The way he keeps looking at something two seconds longer than necessary.
The small silence that appears before he makes a decision.
I don’t know why I know those things.
I don’t know why they remain.
And the harder I try to push them away, the sharper they become.
Sometimes I catch myself waiting.
Not for an order.
Not for a signal.
Not for a word.
Simply waiting.
Waiting for him to finish something.
Anything.
As if I had learned to recognize when he is inside one of his processes.
There is a difference.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But it exists.
The room seems to reorganize itself around him.
His attention narrows.
His movements become more precise.
And then that feeling appears.
The feeling that something is moving toward completion.
That is where the problem begins.
Because I can no longer stop watching.
Not because I want to participate.
Not because I want to help.
Not even because I want to understand.
Only because I need to see how it ends.
And the closer he seems to the end, the harder it becomes to look away.
It feels like gravity.
A ridiculous gravity.
A humiliating one.
Because I have never liked the idea of depending on anyone.
And yet here I am.
Memorizing details that serve no practical purpose.
Remembering the exact position of a hand resting on a table.
The angle of his head while reading.
The pause between one breath and the next.
As if those things mattered more than my own life.
Sometimes I wonder if the obsession was born precisely there.
In my inability to complete the process myself.
Because I never see the whole ending.
Something is always missing.
There is always a hidden section.
One final closed door.
One final thought he never shares.
And perhaps that is exactly what keeps me trapped.
Because the mind hates empty spaces.
It wants to close the circuit.
It wants to finish the sentence.
It wants to know what comes next.
But he never gives away the final piece.
And I keep waiting.
Keep watching.
Keep adjusting my rhythm to his without realizing it.
Not because he asked me to.
But because some part of me is terrified of missing the exact moment when everything finally aligns.
The moment when something inside him finishes becoming itself.
And I finally understand why I have spent so long looking.
Although I suspect that if that moment ever truly arrived, it would not free me.
I would probably just find another detail.
Another silence.
Another pause.
Another tiny, insignificant thing to hold on to.
Because obsession never seems to end with the completion of the process.
It always finds a way to survive a little longer.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
