Sometimes I think the chaos I keep talking about isn’t actually inside me.
Or not entirely.
It’s a convenient explanation.
To say that I’m full of noise.
That I’m tired.
That I need order.
All of that sounds reasonable.
But when I’m completely honest, I suspect the real problem is something else.
The real problem is that ever since he appeared, I can no longer tell which thoughts belong to me and which ones were created simply by watching him for too long.
Because I watch him too much.
Far more than I should.
There are days when I manage to behave like a normal person.
I work.
I talk.
I answer messages.
I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And yet, underneath all of it, there is a second layer of attention that never disappears.
A part of me remains focused.
Not on what he says.
Not on what he does.
But on where he is inside his own process.
That is what I am constantly trying to figure out.
And I never succeed.
There are moments when he seems close to something.
I couldn’t tell you what.
Maybe it doesn’t even have a name.
But I can feel it.
In the way he stares at a fixed point a few seconds longer than necessary.
In the way he leaves a sentence unfinished and never comes back to it.
In the way he seems to be listening to something nobody else can hear.
And then that feeling appears.
The same one as always.
The feeling that I need to remain.
Not intervene.
Not ask questions.
Not move closer.
Just remain.
As if my only purpose were to be there when he finally arrives wherever it is he is going.
And the more it happens, the less I understand why.
Because I still don’t want to be submissive.
The word still feels strange.
Uncomfortable.
Foreign.
Whenever I see it applied to me, something inside me immediately resists.
But then I remember how much time I spend noticing absurd details about a person who doesn’t even know I’m noticing them.
And suddenly I run out of arguments.
I remember the way he holds a cup when he’s distracted.
I remember the rhythm of his footsteps when he’s concentrating.
I remember tiny shifts in expression that nobody else would probably notice.
And I remember all of it because somehow it feels as if every one of those details belongs to the process.
As if they were scattered pieces of something much larger.
Something I still cannot fully see.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if he actually finished.
If one ordinary morning I could look at him and know that he had reached the end.
That there was nothing left to complete.
Nothing left to adjust.
Nothing left to build.
And the truth is that the idea frightens me more than it comforts me.
Because I have begun to suspect something.
I have begun to suspect that my obsession was never really about the ending.
It was about remaining close while the ending approached.
About watching something slowly arrange itself in front of me.
About feeling that there is a direction even when I do not understand it.
Maybe that is why it calms me.
Because I have never managed to organize myself that way.
I have never managed to move forward with that kind of quiet precision.
I have never managed to seem so certain of an invisible path.
And perhaps the most embarrassing part of all of this is that, when I am near him, for a few seconds the noise inside me becomes quieter.
It doesn’t disappear.
It never disappears.
But it becomes more distant.
Smaller.
As if my own confusion stops occupying the entire room.
And then I realize something I don’t like admitting.
Maybe I am not waiting for the end of his process.
Maybe all this time I have been waiting for something inside me to finally adjust itself to his rhythm.
And if that ever happened, I don’t know whether I would feel relief or terror.
Because then I would have to admit that I have spent far too long watching.
Far too long waiting.
And far too long pretending that I am not already obsessed.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
