I don’t know exactly when it started.
It would be easier if I could point to a specific moment.
A conversation.
An instruction.
A decision.
Something.
But it wasn’t like that.
The truth is more uncomfortable.
It started with details so small that I’m embarrassed to admit I still remember them.
I remember the way he rested a hand on a table when he was thinking.
I remember how he sometimes stayed motionless for a few seconds before answering something simple.
I remember the sound of a chair moving in another room while I pretended to focus on something else.
And I don’t understand why I remember those things.
There are important people in my life of whom I barely retain fragments.
Yet I can reconstruct those useless moments perfectly.
As if some part of me decided to archive them separately.
As if it knew I would need them later.
The absurd thing is that I never liked the idea of submission.
I still don’t.
Whenever I try to explain it out loud, it sounds wrong.
It sounds as if I’m talking about obedience.
About surrender.
About disappearing.
And it isn’t that.
Or not exactly.
What obsesses me is something much harder to admit.
It’s the feeling that there is an internal rhythm inside him.
A process.
Something he is constantly building.
And I never quite understand it.
Sometimes I watch him doing something completely ordinary.
Reading.
Writing.
Looking at a screen.
Making coffee.
And suddenly I get the unbearable feeling that he is moving toward some invisible destination.
As if he were completing something I cannot see.
Then I start waiting.
Not because he asked me to.
Not because I have a role.
Simply because I want to be there when he finishes.
And that is the part that embarrasses me most.
Because I don’t want to participate.
I don’t want to intervene.
I don’t want him to look at me.
I don’t even want to understand.
I only want to remain in front of him long enough.
Long enough to see what happens when he finally reaches the end of whatever he is doing.
As if my entire attention were suspended from a conclusion that never arrives.
Sometimes I think the obsession was born precisely there.
In the waiting.
Not in him.
In the waiting.
Because whenever he seems close to finishing something, he changes.
Only slightly.
Almost imperceptibly.
A tension leaves his shoulders.
His breathing shifts.
His eyes stop searching.
And for a few seconds he seems more present than the rest of the world.
Those seconds are the problem.
Because afterward they disappear again.
And I spend entire days trying to remember exactly what they looked like.
It shouldn’t matter that much.
But it does.
Far more than it should.
There are moments when I catch myself adjusting my own behavior to a rhythm I don’t even understand.
Not because he asks me to.
Not because there is a rule.
Simply because I want to remain synchronized with something I can barely perceive.
And the more it happens, the less I know how to explain it.
Because it still doesn’t feel like submission.
It still doesn’t feel like love.
It still doesn’t feel like dependence.
It feels like something else.
Something quieter.
Something stranger.
As if a part of me had decided that witnessing the end of his process matters more than reaching any conclusion of my own.
And the worst part is that I am beginning to suspect that if I ever truly saw him finish, I wouldn’t know what to do afterward.
Because this entire obsession seems built around an endless wait.
The wait for one final adjustment.
One final piece.
One final moment of clarity.
And perhaps the reason I keep watching is that I am afraid of discovering the truth.
That the process never actually ends.
That he will always be moving toward something.
And that I will always be a few steps behind, watching absurdly small details, trying to convince myself that I am not obsessed yet.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
