it needs time to do so and because of that i should not bend before any misfortune but always meet it as unavoidable.

just because i don’t write about you anymore doesn’t mean i am not still mad about you. doesn’t mean you don’t live in me, quietly, constantly. but instead i stay where i am. i sit. and i wait.

i believe that by pushing my senses out of order. i can reach something unknown. it is very painful but i have to endure it. i am certain of that. this is not something i chose. it is who i am. this is not my fault.

and that is the real reason why he doesn’t wish to be with her, not because of his fear of the fights between them that he knows will eventually happen.

i never argue back i just stay quiet, even though inside i am terrified and feel like i am losing my mind.

i feel myself fainting, surrendering but not actually dying. that is why it feels gentle, not frightening. i am not the one in control. i hand myself over, not exactly to my lover but to something bigger than us.

voice trembling on the edge of confession but at that word her lips sealed shut in quiet agony and a sharp twitch passed through her cheek as though the pain had taken a physical form.

what emerges is not a psychological sketch but a structural portrait. a space where a person speaks to himself in love, face to face with the silent other who never answers.

i do not analyze the lover’s words (i become them). the “i” returns, not as a subject of study but as a voice performing its own confession.