What bothers me most is that everything seems slightly wrong since the last time.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not like a tragedy.
More like a photograph that is just slightly out of focus.
The image is still recognizable.
But something is off.
Something does not quite fit.
And I cannot stop looking for what it is.
For days I tried to convince myself it was exhaustion.
Stress.
A bad week.
Any ordinary explanation.
But ordinary explanations tend to disappear once they are resolved.
This does not disappear.
It remains.
Like background noise.
Like a question being asked too quietly to hear clearly.
The worst part is that I am still angry about it.
I still think I do not want to feel this way.
I still think I do not want a single person occupying so much space inside my head.
And yet every morning the same thing happens.
I open my eyes.
I look at the ceiling.
And for a few seconds an absurd thought appears.
When will the next time be?
It is not even a voluntary question.
I do not consciously ask it.
It simply appears.
As if someone left it there overnight.
Waiting for me.
There are moments when I manage to forget.
A conversation.
A film.
Work.
Some brief distraction.
And then something ridiculous happens.
The sound of a door closing.
A chair scraping across the floor.
A silence that lasts slightly too long.
And suddenly I remember the waiting.
Always the waiting.
Not the intense moments.
Not the corrections.
Not the procedures.
The waiting.
The feeling that something important was happening nearby while I remained still.
And that is what becomes unbearable.
Because I should not miss something like that.
I should not find value in it.
I should not be thinking about it while buying groceries or waiting at a traffic light.
But I do.
And it happens more often now.
Sometimes I catch myself calculating dates.
Trying to remember how much time passed between one session and the next.
Trying to guess when it might happen again.
And when I realize what I am doing, I feel a strange mixture of embarrassment and sadness.
Because I do not recognize myself.
Because this was never a concern before.
Because part of me keeps insisting that all of this is ridiculous.
And another part keeps watching the calendar.
Waiting.
Not out of obedience.
Not out of enthusiasm.
Not even out of desire.
Only because something feels unfinished.
As if the last session left a sentence incomplete.
And ever since then my entire life has been reading around that empty space.
Trying to ignore it.
Trying to fill it.
Trying to prove it does not matter.
While the empty space remains exactly where it was.
Waiting for someone to return and finish the sentence.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
