I do not know exactly when it started.
Maybe weeks before.
Maybe long before I met him.
I only know that there are moments when I am sitting in front of a screen, reading something that should matter to me, and I suddenly realize I have spent several minutes thinking about something else.
Not about him.
Not exactly.
I think about remaining.
I think about being there.
I think about the moment when everything else stops demanding attention and only the process remains.
That is what unsettles me.
If it were sadness, I could understand it.
If it were loneliness, I could name it.
If it were desire, it would be simple.
But it is none of those things.
Life continues to function.
I work.
I answer messages.
I buy groceries.
I cross streets.
I hold entire conversations.
And yet everything feels slightly hollow.
Not because it has lost its value.
But because there is another gravity.
A silent gravity.
I remember the way he breathed.
It was such a quiet breath that it almost disappeared.
There were moments when I had to watch for several seconds just to confirm that he was still breathing at all.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing exaggerated.
Just a minimal rhythm.
An impossible steadiness.
And it is absurd that this is the thing that keeps returning to my mind.
Not his authority.
Not his commands.
Not his words.
His breathing.
The way he never seemed to be in a hurry to arrive anywhere.
The way he could remain still without appearing rigid.
As if time organized itself around him instead of pushing him forward.
I think about that far too often.
Much more often than I should.
And then the same question appears.
The question I have been avoiding for weeks.
If I do not want to be submissive…
Why can I not stop thinking about remaining there?
Doing nothing.
Proving nothing.
Trying to become nothing else.
Simply remaining.
Waiting for his process to reach its conclusion.
Waiting for whatever he is building to be complete.
As if my only purpose were to become a component adjusted perfectly for that specific moment.
I do not disappear.
But something changes.
The feeling resembles resonance.
For me, silence has stopped being the absence of sound and become a specific vibration inside my own rigidity.
I can feel my internal structure slowly turning into a tuning fork of marble where every memory of him creates a response that cannot be ignored.
It is not an order.
It is not even an expectation.
It is something stranger.
A frequency.
Everyday life continues producing noise.
But that frequency remains.
Constant.
Stable.
Beneath everything.
There are nights when I do not sleep.
Not because I am anxious.
Not because I am worried.
Simply because my mind keeps returning to the same place.
The same room.
The same almost inaudible breathing.
The same feeling that everything would become simpler if I could just stay there.
Without performing.
Without explaining.
Without defending.
Simply existing.
Obsession does not feel like enthusiasm.
It feels more like sedimentation.
As if a microscopic layer settles every day upon the one before it.
A slow accumulation.
Geological.
Until certain parts of me begin to harden around the idea itself.
And then I realize something that deeply unsettles me.
Perhaps I am not waiting for the meeting.
Perhaps I have been inhabiting a preliminary version of the process for weeks already.
Perhaps the adjustment has already begun.
Because there are moments when my own life feels like a draft.
And the only thing that feels completely defined is that image I cannot abandon:
Remaining.
Listening to a breath that is barely audible.
Feeling everything unnecessary lose its weight.
And slowly becoming the exact version of myself that that moment requires.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
