his book was never written in order; it was felt in fragments. Some moments came like wind unannounced, untouchedand some stayed long after they were meant to leave. I have always found that the most pleasant thing to feel is not noise, not people, but nature, because whenever the mind drifts, whenever it wanders too far, it returns to something quieter to the sky, to the sea, to a flower that does not ask to be understood.
This was never about a second person or a third; it was about expectation the kind we hold too gently and believe too deeply. And when those expectations remain unfinished, they do not always break us; sometimes they leave behind a softer kind of ache, one that hurts but not entirely, one that teaches us how to carry something without needing to let it go.