I shouldn’t be reading this again.
That was the first thing I thought tonight.
It was also the first thing I thought last night.
I close the tab.
Ten minutes later I open it again.
Not because I’m looking for something specific.
Because it feels like I’m missing something.
That’s what I tell myself.
The truth is I’ve already read the same articles several times.
I recognize some of the paragraphs.
I recognize some of the photos.
I even recognize the comments.
And yet I keep scrolling.
As if this time there might be something different.
As if this time I might find an answer that wasn’t there before.
There is one word that keeps appearing.
Submission.
I see it.
I keep reading.
I close the page.
An hour later I search for it again.
I’m starting to notice something that makes me uncomfortable.
It isn’t excitement exactly.
Not yet.
It’s curiosity.
But a strange kind of curiosity.
Too persistent.
The kind that shows up when I should be doing something else.
I’ve started saving links.
Not many.
Then more.
Last night I created a folder to organize them.
When I realized what I was doing, I shut down my computer.
I felt embarrassed.
Not because someone else might see it.
Because I saw it.
Because it looked as if a part of me had already made a decision without telling me.
Something worse happened today.
I found a photograph I was sure I had seen days ago.
I recognized it immediately.
The clothes.
The room.
The posture.
Everything.
But it wasn’t where I remembered finding it.
I checked my history.
I searched for twenty minutes.
I couldn’t find it.
The photo existed.
I’m sure of it.
The strange thing is that it felt more like a memory than a discovery.
As if I had arrived there twice.
The first time without noticing.
The second time already knowing exactly what I was going to feel.
I’ve started wondering when this began.
I can’t find the moment.
There wasn’t a specific day.
There wasn’t a first search.
Just lots of small checks.
An article.
A video.
Another article.
An open tab.
A screenshot.
A note I don’t remember writing.
Nothing important on its own.
But together they become something.
And I think that’s what scares me.
Not the possibility of trying it.
Not yet.
What scares me is looking back and realizing I’ve been moving toward it for weeks.
Little by little.
As if someone had been moving a chair a few inches every night.
So little that you wouldn’t notice.
Until one day you realize it’s in a different room.
I keep telling myself it’s only curiosity.
I say it often.
Too often.
Tonight I opened the same page four times.
I closed it.
Came back.
Closed it again.
Came back again.
In the end I wasn’t even reading.
I was just checking that it was still there.
And while I was doing that, a question appeared that I haven’t been able to shake.
It’s not what am I looking for.
It’s not why do I keep coming back.
It’s something worse.
What if a part of me already knew I was coming back before I closed the page?
My neck I should…
