The strangest part is that I never would have imagined myself thinking about something like this.
Not because it seemed impossible.
It simply did not exist inside me.
It belonged somewhere else.
To other people.
To other lives.
And yet now it returns constantly.
Not always as a clear thought.
Sometimes it is only a feeling.
A memory of something that has not happened yet.
A quiet certainty that there is a future moment my mind keeps returning to without being asked.
I try to understand it.
Some days I think what I am waiting for is his attention.
Other days I think it is the sense of order.
Then I dismiss both explanations.
Neither one feels complete.
Because when I imagine those moments afterward, when everything is finished and silence has settled back into the room, I am not really thinking about myself.
I am thinking about him.
About the way he continues.
About how he seems to believe the process does not end where everyone else would assume it ends.
About how he remains present.
About how he keeps observing.
About how he keeps paying attention to details nobody would require him to notice.
And perhaps that is where my thoughts become trapped.
Not in intensity.
But in continuity.
In the strange feeling that nothing has been improvised.
That long before I began imagining any of it, he had already walked through every stage in his mind.
Every pause.
Every transition.
Every return to stillness.
Weeks before anything happens, while there are still days left to wait, I find my thoughts returning to the same place.
Not to dramatic events.
Not to spectacular images.
But to small details.
A quiet breath.
A moment of observation.
A question asked in a low voice.
The feeling that everything follows an order I do not need to fully understand.
And that is what unsettles me.
Because I do not know exactly what I enjoy about it.
If someone demanded a precise answer, I do not think I could give one.
It is not simply admiration.
It is not simply obedience.
It is not simply trust.
It is something more difficult to name.
The feeling of existing inside a process that does not revolve around my immediate emotions.
The feeling of accompanying something that already existed before I arrived.
And will continue to exist afterward.
That is why the waiting becomes so quiet.
Because it is not filled with anxiety.
It is filled with observation.
Days beforehand, while I am doing completely ordinary things, a simple image appears.
Me there.
Nothing more.
No need to prove anything.
No need to understand everything.
Simply present.
While he continues being exactly who he is.
And the more I think about it, the stranger it becomes.
Because I never would have imagined that an idea like this could occupy so much space inside me.
And yet it keeps returning.
Again and again.
Not as a restless obsession.
Not as an urgency.
But as a persistent stillness.
Like a lit room at the end of a hallway.
Like a place the mind returns to when it finally becomes quiet.
And perhaps what I am truly waiting for is not any particular moment.
Perhaps it is simply that feeling.
The feeling of arriving at a point where everything has already been considered.
Everything has already been arranged.
And I no longer have to chase answers.
I only have to be there.
Waiting.
Breathing.
While calm slowly takes the place where questions used to live.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
