Your one and only true love is obsession.

You have obsessed over everything handed to you. You fixate on the food on your plate, not for pleasure but for function. Meals are fuel; they give you life, and you give them nothing more than necessity.

You run every day, sometimes at dawn, sometimes at dusk. The distances lengthen, the times shorten. You don’t know why you run; you only know you must.

You work out to escape a reality that insists you deserve punishment. Punishment, you think, for simply being yourself. So you punish yourself first.

You collect knowledge the way others collect trinkets: useless facts that might someday prove useful. You build solitude like furniture, carving rooms from routines and closing the doors softly. You learn the tools of isolation and use them to keep everyone at the right distance.

You cling to the memory of a dream you woke from half-remembered and aching to return to. You catch bits of conversation like splinters and nurse them until they fester. You want a quiet life, but even silence is noisy with thought.

You obsess. Over and over. Not out of love for things themselves, but because obsession is the steady shape your heart takes practical, relentless, and true. In the end, obsession is both prison and refuge; you cannot tell which you prefer.