Damn love… That's how the thought began, not as a passing remark uttered in a moment of anger, but as a heavy truth that had settled in my heart long ago. Love, that word everyone repeats as if it were the key to the world, as if it were the only answer to every question, was never that for me. They spoke of it with a gleam in their eyes, with a tone of absolute certainty, as if it were something sacred… and I listened, not because I believed, but because I couldn't understand how something invisible could bear such weight.
I didn't want love from anyone… or so I told myself. It would have been easier to reject it before it was rejected by me, to convince myself that I didn't need it, that I was different, that I was self-sufficient. But the truth? The truth was more complicated, more cruel. It wasn't that I didn't want it… it was that I had never found the kind of love I was searching for, that undefined thing I couldn't describe, but which I knew deep down wasn't what others offered.
Everything seemed incomplete. The words were repetitive, the feelings were dull, and the promises… just noise. I watched people clinging to each other, fearing loss, celebrating closeness, and I wondered: Am I the one who's broken here? Or are they the ones living a beautiful illusion?
I had no one to teach me, and no one worth learning for…
Why didn't I die?
The question wasn't as dramatic as it sounds; it was simple, direct, and painfully honest. Why am I still here? Why do I wake up every day, breathe, move, work, as if there's something worth all this effort? Resistance… a big word, but in my case, it was empty. I'm not resisting anything specific; I'm just continuing because I haven't stopped yet.
My mind is full of everything… thoughts, memories, faces, voices, possibilities, endless scenarios. But at the same time… it's empty. Nothing is permanent, nothing lasts, nothing holds real meaning. Revenge? A ridiculous idea. Good deeds? Just an attempt to beautify something ugly. Good and evil, success and failure… all concepts that seem fragile when viewed from afar.
And I… became a doctor even though I know my own nature perfectly well, but…
Damn it.
How ridiculous it seems. I, who see no meaning in anything, am supposed to help others, to be the reason for their healing, to reassure them, to restore their hope. They stand before me with eyes full of fear, waiting for words of comfort, as if I possess the answers, as if I understand life better than they do.
I put on the white coat, place the stethoscope around my neck, and speak with calculated confidence. I explain, I diagnose, I prescribe treatment. Everything seems natural… even flawless. But inside? Nothing stirs. No pride, no satisfaction, not even genuine weariness. Just an act. A role I perform well because I have to.
Should I keep pretending?
The question haunts me every time I look at my reflection in the mirror. Am I a good person? Or am I just a good actor? Does helping others mean I'm good… even if I'm empty inside? Even if I'm a murderer?
People think that being a doctor means understanding life and death, being close to the truth. But the truth? The closer you get, the more elusive it becomes. I've seen people live even though they don't want to, and I've seen people die even though they clung to life with all their might. No justice, no logic… just silent chaos.
And in the midst of all this, here I am… moving between cases, between faces, between stories, without feeling like I'm part of any of them. As if I'm observing from the outside, as if I'm merely a witness to something I don't belong to.
Love, life, death… big words, but in the end, they're just sounds. People give them value, fill them with meaning, and then believe them. Perhaps the problem isn't with these things, but with my ability to feel them.
Or perhaps… with my inability to.
Sometimes I think, not about the end, but about stopping. Stopping pretending, stopping trying to understand, stopping searching for a meaning that may not even exist. But even that seems… exhausting.
So I continue.
Not because I believe in anything, nor because I want to reach a certain place, but because the stopping hasn't happened yet. I wake up, I work, I breathe… and I observe.
I observe myself, I observe the world, and I silently wonder:
Have I missed something?
Or is this all there is to it?
Should I end my vengeance and put a stop to the meaninglessness swirling in my mind?
But now… you are in my arms.
So close that the distance between us is immeasurable, your breath brushes my neck, the warmth of your body seeps gently into my chest like something I've been missing all this time without realizing it. No words, no explanations, no complicated questions like I used to… just this silence that, for the first time, doesn't seem empty.
I feel you… and that's enough.