11:55
I’m furious.
I can’t believe I have to sort this out with a therapist.
Damn it.
I’m standing in front of the door.
And I’m shaking.
Not neatly, not beautifully — for real.
Like a teenager who was dragged here by the hand and told: you have to.
My head is boiling somewhere at the bridge of my nose, right between my eyes.
It’s pulsing.
Like it’s about to boil over and spill out.
Damn damn damn.
The corridor stretches in a straight line.
The walls are aligned as if someone smoothed them with their palms to perfection.
The color is brown-chocolate, warm by design,
but it makes nausea rise.
As if they’re trying to calm me down with color.
Vomit — Hades.
Just like this whole corporate world with its important asses.
Mushu punches my fists.
The floor is clean to the point of sterility.
Not a single stain.
Not a trace of life.
Not one crack for the eye to cling to.
The light is soft, diffused.
It doesn’t flicker.
It doesn’t hum.
It’s just there.
And that makes it even worse.
God, is there even oxygen in here? — Ursula.
Yeah, and it’s perfect too — Hades.
I jerk my coat.
Shoulder up.
Down again.
Fingers into fists.
Then unclench.
Then clench again.
My hands are looking for somewhere to dump the excess nervous energy.
I roll my eyes — sharply, angrily, almost childishly.
I stomp my foot.
To break this dead symmetry.
Fucking therapist.
The door.
It’s perfect too.
Straight.
Smooth.
Not a single scratch.
The handle is cold, metallic, polished by чужие hands.
The kind hundreds of people have touched —
and none of them left a trace.
Come on, Nazokat, you can do this.
So.
The smile is prepared in advance, like always when I try to lie.
But
the body doesn’t understand why I can’t just turn around and leave right now.
Now he’s going to start spouting nonsense and showering me with his fucking terms. — Hades.
The thought rolls through me in a wave of irritation.
I’m angry in advance.
Resisting in advance.
Don’t be sarcastic — my inner voice.
Fuck off.
Don’t be rude.
Ha ha, very funny.
They know.
They know that’s how I talk to Roman.
I sharply exhale through my nose.
Roughly.
Like a teenager being told “behave normally.”
The therapist.
Glasses — thin metal frame.
They sit perfectly.
I roll my eyes.
As if they were aligned with a ruler.
Leg crossed over leg in a gray suit.
Gray not as style — gray as absence of life.
The suit fits correctly.
Hands folded calmly.
He looks like nothing touches him.
I shudder — he looks like his mother licked him clean before sending him out, boring and predictable.
The feeling comes from below, from my stomach.
The body reacts before the thoughts.
Everything in me screams: he’s not alive.
Hello.
The word sounds even.
No warmth.
No spark.
I stood up and left.
Outside the door.
I lean my shoulder against the wall.
My heart is pounding.
My chest jerks sharply, like after running.
Go back, at least try, damn you to hell.
No!
Come on, for fuck’s sake, you’re acting like a teenager.
Aaaaa.
Aaaaaa back in response.
Everyone is angry.
Everyone is furious.
I exhale loudly.
Breathe on 4, come on.
Okay.
One more time.
I go back.
Walking fast.
Steps sharp.
I came back not even trying to look decent —
he made a calm face, like: typical reaction, pure resistance of the psyche.
I see it in his eyes.
In his posture.
In that fucking stillness.
What a freak, how dare he look at me from above.
Everything in me flares up.
Shall we try again? — therapist.
Arrogant bastard.
“No, go fuck yourself.” — me.
The door slams shut sharply, with a dull thud.
“Nazokat.”
“Aaaa, I can’t, he looks like an idiot.”
“He just doesn’t look the way you want.”
I wave it off.
Sharply.
Like swatting an annoying fly.
And I go in again and immediately close it.
The door closes too loudly.
The room seems to shrink.
No no no no.
The body repeats it before the thoughts.
Knees tense.
Fists clenched again.
“This idiot can’t even help himself!” — me.
“Oh really, and did you study to be a psychotherapist?”
“Go shove it up your ass, you know perfectly well education is not a measure of intelligence!”
“Moron.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Aaaaaa!” — I screamed from rage.
“You’re like a child, for fuck’s sake, like a child!”
“Yeees?! Then let’s go by facts!”
She snorts.
“Ha, what, not so brave anymore? Here are the facts,bitch.”
Bald spot:
Not age-related, but maintained. Indicates a conscious refusal of individualization through appearance. Often found in people oriented toward control, rationality, simplification of signals. Minimization of “extra” markers.
Boom.
Glasses:
Functional, neutral.
Psychologically — a tool of distancing. Glasses are often chosen by people who:
prefer mediated contact (through a filter, structure, concept),
allow selective blindness: the ability not to notice what is emotionally uncomfortable or disrupts the system.
Glasses = control of focus: what to see, what not to see.
Clothing (gray suit, neutral shirt):
Safe colors, non-provocative.
Clothing not for expressing personality, but for dissolving into a professional role.
Probable attitude: “I am a function, not a person.”
Eyes:
Small, deep-set.
Often indicate:
introverted observation,
high selectivity in letting others in,
a habit of looking “from inside,” not outward.
Eye contact is economical. Not warm, not aggressive — analytical.
Wrinkles around the eyes:
Not mimic (not from laughter), but tension-related.
A sign of chronic self-control and suppression of spontaneous reactions.
The person is used to not showing, not to “not feeling.”
Facial expression:
Minimal. Economical.
Absence of spontaneous micro-emotions.
Likely a long-developed skill of emotional restraint.
Already-formed conclusion:
A likely high level of intellectualization of emotions.
Feelings are recognized, but lived indirectly, through analysis.
A tendency to control through neutrality.
Neutrality is used as a form of power and safety.
Possible personal history where:
emotions were excessive, chaotic, or unsafe,
a skill of “not letting things inside” was developed.
A pattern typical for the profession:
choosing the profession of therapist as a way to understand oneself through others, while maintaining distance from one’s own vulnerability.
Final characterization of this jerk:
A person who is:
rational,
collected,
emotionally restrained,
well-oriented in psychological defenses,
prone to classification and typologization.
Risks in interaction:
a feeling of devaluation of a live reaction,
perceiving another person as a “case,”
difficulty in contact with intense, uncontrolled emotionality.
So, should I continue?
She snorted.
I mentally threw the documents into the air.
Perfect.
I know myself what I need, so no one needs to force me.
The Porsche roared, and the revs went past four thousand. The sound was short, angry, clean — like a command for the body to wake up. I rolled my neck and blinked a couple of times, preparing for an even bigger adrenaline surge.
The city still holds on — traffic lights, shop windows. The asphalt is dark, wet, shining under the wheels. The tires hiss, as if erasing the past.
The bypass road.
The road widens. It becomes easier. Straighter.
Fewer cars. Fewer lights. Fewer чужие lives nearby.
The headlights pull out only the lane, the signs, the white edge of snow along the roadside.
I breathe deeper.
The city falls behind. First by houses. Then by noise. Then even by thoughts.
The snow gets thicker. The silence denser.
A couple more kilometers — and the lights stay behind.
The road darkens. The sky lowers. The air gets cleaner.
I’m outside the city.
Finally.
No rush.
No roles.
No expectations.
Only cold, snow, a straight road, and the feeling that ahead there is a place where you can stop and just be.
Finally, freedom.
The seatbelt is unfastened — I can breathe. Gravel crunches under the wheels and the car breathes heat for a few more seconds.
I slap the steering wheel.
What, out of breath?
Silence. Only the sound of cooling metal.
I get out. Cold air immediately hits my face, stripping off the sticky beige film from my head. My chest opens on its own.
I take out a cigarette. My fingers work confidently, without shaking. Click — the lighter. The flame is short, businesslike.
Let’s do it the old way, Nazokat.
I nod to myself.
Guys.
I stand, leaning on the hood. The metal is warm. Real. Not licked clean.
We’re here.
Great.
The smoke settles into my lungs evenly, the way it should. My head clears. Thoughts stop scattering — they line up.
Let’s go.
“This will be unpleasant.”
“That’s part of the process. Nothing new.” — me.
They nod, and we bump fists. A ritual. Fixation: I’m not alone.
So.
What do we have here.
I close my eyes for a second — not to hide, but to pull everything to the surface. The body is calm.
The anger is collected.
The teenager inside is no longer thrashing — he sat down next to me and is watching.
Now we can work.
Guys, today without dragons and demons.
This is not about the soul right now — we need physics.
Ground. Facts. Logic.
And those words made everyone flinch.
Me too.
In moments like this I don’t go to people.
I don’t need that right now.
I need a mind
that doesn’t care
whether it likes me or not.
I open my phone.
Not to distract myself.
So that I can be led through logic,
without emotions,
without condescension,
without attempts to support.
Let’s go.
Your real need
(not the one you voice)
You think you’re looking for:
— equal exchange
— contribution
— support
— responsibility from others
That’s the secondary layer.
Your real, basic need right now is —
to be loved and accepted
when you are not carrying,
not organizing,
not managing,
not shining,
not useful.
Not “sometimes.”
Systemically.
Accepted.
Go on.
Why you’re so afraid of “not being useful.”
Your inner contract —
old, but still active.
I am needed → that means I won’t be abandoned.
I hold everything → that means everything is alive.
I am responsible → that means there is safety.
This contract was never discussed.
It just became the background.
And when you stop:
controlling,
organizing,
carrying,
being the “center of movement” —
the nervous system doesn’t think.
It screams:
“I’m about to be thrown out.
I will disappear.”
This is not a whim.
This is not dramatization.
This is an overload of responsibility
that for too long
had no outlet.
I put the phone down.
My head is clear.
My body is noise.
Got it.
I need whiskey.
— Mike?
— Yes, miss.
— Bring me whiskey, please.
— Understood, miss.
What you consider “equal exchange.”
You don’t consider exchange to be:
money,
gifts,
sex,
care as service.
For you this is background.
Pleasant, important, but not decisive.
There is only one exchange for you:
when others next to you
carry responsibility
without your reminder.
That is, they:
— intervene when they see you’re on the edge
— take decisions even if you are coping
— enter the process not because you asked,
but because they saw
This is the key pain point.
Damn it.
The main conflict with Nate
(and with men in general)
In male logic:
if she’s coping on her own — no need to intervene.
In your logic:
if I’m coping — that means I need you
to be рядом even more.
This is not a conflict about love.
This is a conflict of responsibility models.
You’re not angry at him
for the absence of feelings.
You’re angry at the absence of action
at the moment when you are silently drowning.
And this repeats:
you’re strong
you hold
you don’t ask
you cope
→ and you stay alone
in your tower.
A very important moment:
you are already receiving exchange —
but you don’t believe it.
Cody:
— You’ve long been loved simply for existing.
Your reaction:
— I don’t believe it.
Why?
Because inside you
this has not yet been lived through by the body.
You hear it with your mind —
but you don’t trust it.
Your system is still waiting for a catch:
“The moment I stop being needed —
everything will collapse.”
The Audi arrived sharply, like lightning.
Mike got out and handed me the bottles.
— Thank you, friend.
— Miss, should I stay with you?
I look at him closely.
He won’t understand.
— No, sweetheart, thank you.
Go.
And please keep an eye on Nate.
You know I always worry.
— Of course, miss, — he nodded.
The Audi pulled away softly
and drove off.
I stayed.
I don’t need a ritual.
I don’t need a glass.
I drink straight from the bottle.
The liquid goes hard,
without pause,
burning the throat,
the chest,
inside — downward.
I shuddered.
Not from weakness — from return.
From recognition.
The body switches to a mode of cleansing and burning.
We’re collected, but this is a sprint.
Chemistry changes. Everyone knows what comes next.
It will cut into living flesh.
Result. What you need right now:
— the right to be weak, boring, unmade-up, silent —
and not lose love
— men intervening
not because you asked,
but because they saw
— responsibility for life
not being on you alone
— your value
not being tied to function
At this moment I catch myself being carried away.
Too many realizations in a row.
— I need ground, — I fix it.
— Accepted, — the system replies.
A couple of minutes.
Inhale — exhale.
A cigarette.
Too fast.
Too nervous.
Breathe, Nazokat.
Come on.
Breathe.
Damn it.
Pull yourself together.
Kitten—
No.
I sharply shake my head.
Nate, don’t interfere, sweetheart.
Not now.
I don’t want you to see me like this.
— My love…
No.
No—no—no.
I press my temples, as if I could physically shake the connection off.
I can’t let him connect right now.
Not here.
Not in this state.
I’m not me.
I’m not a “kitten.”
He’ll be disappointed.
I know it.
One more minute.
Just a little more.
Disconnect, Nazokat.
Drink.
Damn it.
I need to shut my feelings down.
Not because they’re bad.
Right now — they’re dangerous.
Not now, Nate.
Not now.
I’m overloaded. Not now, Nate. Not now.
“My love—”
Damn, damn. I kicked the car
and grabbed my head.
Go away. Go away.
The thought hits like a revelation, like a beam in the dark:
I need pain.
I smash the bottle against the wheels and a line of blood appears instantly.
Perfect.
Let’s go further.
What exactly your knot is:
“If you don’t bring usefulness —
you can be pleasant.
But that feels impossible.”
Here is the formula of your inner world:
Usefulness = the right to exist
Pleasantness = a bonus, but not a foundation
You don’t know how to:
— just be
— take up space
— receive
— remain
if you don’t pay for it
with function.
And this is not a philosophical question.
This is a bodily fear of disappearance.
Why it’s so hard for you to imagine life without function:
Because in your system:
function = safety
function = justification of existence
function = indulgence for love
Without function, immediately rise:
— guilt
— anxiety
— shame
— the feeling “I’m extra”
— the feeling “I’m in the way”
That’s why “just being”
doesn’t sound like rest to you.
It sounds like danger.
You don’t know how to live without function
because you were never taught that.
You were taught to:
— be needed
— be strong
— be responsible
— be useful
— be support
But to be an object of love,
not its source —
no one taught you that.

This is not your defect.
It’s just a gap in experience.
F***
— Where’s the second bottle?
— Here.
— Thanks.
I take a swallow.

If you stop being useful,
you’re afraid you’ll hear:
“you’re extra”
“you’re annoying”
“we’ll manage without you”

In your body lives the sensation:
“I am needed — therefore I exist.”
It sits low.
Down there.
Not in the head.
Question.
If you’re just sitting.
Not solving anything.
Not leading anyone.
Not saving anyone.
You get scared.
You want to shrink.
Leave.
So as not to get in anyone’s way.
Not to burden anyone.
Just hide somewhere,
until I become needed again.
When Cody said:
“You are loved simply for existing” —
you didn’t believe it.
You thought:
if she didn’t depend on you —
on shared property, business, structure —
she would throw you out like trash.
She’s here because
she needs something from you.
I shake my head.
Come on, Nazokat.
Pull yourself together.
You live with an inner sensation:
“I’m in the way.
I’m a burden.
There are too many problems with me.
I’m tolerated as long as I’m useful.
The moment there’s no use — I’m extra, annoying, failed.”
This is not a thought.
This is bodily knowledge.
I drink again.
“To hide until I become needed again.”
There it is.
That’s your inner contract with the world.
You’re not living.
You’re waiting for permission.
Permission:
to love
to have a place
to be present
to exist
And this permission
you’re used to receiving
through usefulness.
Why you didn’t believe Cody — and why it’s logical:
“If she didn’t depend on me,
she would throw me out.
She just needs something from me.”
This is not about Cody.
This is about your basic relational experience.
Your system knows only one form of connection:
“I’m kept as long as I’m needed.”
That’s why any
“you’re loved just like that”
is read as:
a game
manipulation
self-deception
temporary politeness
You don’t “not trust people.”
You don’t know a world
where you are not discarded for being unnecessary.
And here is the main question.
If you stop being useful —
and you are not thrown out,
not abandoned,
not pushed away —
what collapses inside you then?
Identity collapses.
You don’t know how to behave.
The program is deleted.
You are no longer a function.
And the new one hasn’t been loaded.
You don’t understand
who you are now:
a chick,
a human,
or a wardrobe.
The body is terrified.
The nervous system is frozen.
The script is not written.
For fuck’s sake.
I kicked the car tire.
Fucking parents.
You don’t know:
how to speak
how to move
how to want
how to take up space
how to be around people
Right now you are not “a person without usefulness.”
You are a person without a role.
These are different things.
“Without usefulness” is about value.
“Without a role” is about the structure of identity.
It’s your role that’s collapsing, not your value.
Why it feels like: “I don’t know who I am.”
Because you never answered the question:
“Who am I if I don’t owe anything?”
You answered a different one:
“What do I do so I don’t get thrown out?”
This is not a reproach.
It’s a statement of fact.
— Accepted. Go on.
“I exist” without a role — through the body, not through meaning.
Right now your system thinks like this:
“If I’m not useful — I don’t exist.”
We’re not going to argue with that.
We’re just going to check reality.
Sit or lie down
in a way that is improper for a “useful person.”
Not beautiful.
Not collected.
Not correct.
One hand — on the lower belly
(that very zone where fear lives).
The other — wherever it wants.
And one question. Not “who am I.”
But:
“What is alive in me right now if I do nothing?”
Don’t think.
Scan.
Damn it.
I threw up.
Damn it.
And here’s what turned out to be alive.
Cartoons.
A child.
All I want is
to sit and watch cartoons,
eat whatever I want,
mess around,
run, jump.
And for there to be conditional parents.
People who carry responsibility.
I don’t want to carry responsibility.
I’m sick of it.
I want to watch cartoons all day
and eat chips and other crap.
— Accepted.
What this actually is.
Your psyche and body are exhausted
from constant adulthood without a break.
You have been:
— carrying
— responsible
— controlling
— holding
— rational
Without a period where:
— someone thinks for you
— someone decides for you
— someone simply holds you
— you are not evaluated
Right now you want:
— simplicity (cartoons — a world without complex decisions)
— permitted pleasure (food without control)
— movement without meaning (running, jumping, messing around)
— acceptance without conditions (“loved just because”)
This is not about food.
Not about laziness.
Not about degradation.
It’s about one thing:
“I want to be held, not to hold everything.”
The most important thing.
You want parents —
but not like in childhood.
You don’t want overseers.
You want adults
who carry responsibility
while you rest.
— a man who sees and intervenes
— a system that works without you
— a space where you can fall apart —
and the world won’t collapse
This is not a whim.
This is a basic stage of recovery.
But inside you lives a harsh law:
“A child = a threat.
A child is not held.
A child is thrown out.”
That’s why you:
— forbade yourself to be small
— became a “convenient adult”
— took on responsibility earlier than you could bear
And now the child is not asking to play.
He is asking to survive.
Damn. This is complete shit.
Did I really drive myself to this?
No.
You didn’t drive yourself.
You held on.
And what surfaced now is
not degradation,
but the limit of compensation.
— I told you you were an idiot, — Hades snorted.
— F off.
I took another drink.
The bottle was completely light.
Damn. I couldn’t have drunk that much.
Ah, to hell with it.
— I think sex with Nate would fit better, — Mushu drawled.
— Oh, definitely.
And all of mine dispersed into a pleasant languor.
His hands.
Shoulders.
O-o-o.
Ooo.
“Pull yourself together,” the brain said dryly.
“Sorry, boss,” I muttered. “I’m here and ready to puke.”
Mushu and Hades gave me a high five,
and we laughed like idiots.
“Ahem,” said the brain. “Meaning: are we ready to get better,
even if we get slammed against the table again,
and start bleeding again,
and puke again,
until our guts fall out?”
“Stop clowning,” he added.
“Okay,” I straightened up. “I’m here.
Fully in ‘ready, burn it, buddy’ mode.”
Identity crisis number two.
Your power-driven nature.
We all know it:
you can cut a person into pieces
if they don’t submit.
Especially if it’s Nate,
or Jonathan,
or Josh.
With men this is especially important.
“Right. Nate,” I drawled. “Nate.”
And again Nate.
Ooo, Nate.
Damn, how I miss him.
“You have sex yesterday,” Mushu reminded me.
“Ooo, feels like a year passed. I adore him.”
Mushu and I high-fived again.
The brain grimaced.
In the style of: are you done?
“Oh, wow, you’re such an investor,” I mocked.
“So very an important ass.
A business-person.”
“Hey, woman, get it together,” he said. “We’re all adults here.”
Mushu high-fived me again.
The brain winced.
“Pull yourself together.”
I saluted.
“Okay, boss.”
The brain nodded.
“If my word isn’t the last one,
people can hurt me.
They can take power into their hands
and force me to do something.
And it will be something bad.”
This is not about status.
Not about ego.
Not about dominance for the sake of dominance.
This is about losing control over my body and will.
I shuddered.
I threw up.
For you, “being on top”
means being in a position
where no one can do to me what I don’t want.
This is not power as managing others.
This is power as protection from coercion.
If we’re completely honest, in the body it sounds like this:
As long as I’m on top —
I won’t be broken.
I won’t be forced.
I won’t be pinned down.
I won’t be used.
My body and my will are mine.
And this is the key.
What you’re actually afraid of
(and this is important to name)
I gathered my will into my fists
and tried not to shake.
I think I’m seriously drunk.
“Come on. Burn it.”
You’re not afraid of arguments.
You’re not afraid of dialogue.
You’re not afraid of equality.
You’re afraid of a scenario where:
— someone seizes control
— your “no” stops carrying weight
— you’re pushed, broken, forced
— you end up again in a position
where you have to submit to survive
And then rage
is not “I want to dominate.”
It’s panic defense
against returning to helplessness.
Why exactly “my word must be the last.”
Because for your nervous system:
the last word = stop signal
the last word = boundary
the last word = “no further”
If the last word isn’t yours,
the body doesn’t reason.
The body thinks:
“What if they run me over again?”
This is not logic.
This is bodily memory.
A very subtle,
but decisive moment.
I raised the bottle.
“To you and me.”
“I feel like if I don’t defend this thing of mine…”
And notice:
you don’t say “if I don’t control.”
You say “if I don’t defend.”
Meaning your power is reactive,
not exploitative.
It grew
not from a desire to command,
but from the necessity not to be broken.
And that’s when it clicked for me.
Maybe…
this is good.
The real conflict is not between:
— power and softness
— domination and equality
But between:
— control as protection
— and trust as risk
Your psyche speaks honestly:
“If I let go of control —
someone will definitely take advantage of it
and hurt me.”
And, if we’re completely honest,
given our experience —
that’s not irrational.
Hades and I bumped fists.
At least somewhere it’s normal.
We laughed.
Started fooling around like idiots.
The brain raised an eyebrow.
“Well damn… sorry.
We’re back at the desk again.
Ready to puke again
and cleanse.”
Then the main question is not “do you need power.”
You do need power. That’s already a fact.
The question is different. More precise.
Do you need to be above people —
or do you need to be outside the zone of coercion?
Feel the difference.
“Above” is hierarchy.
“Outside” is untouchability.
And I see: you need the second.
People who have lived through:
— coercion
— pressure
— violence (not necessarily physical)
— the erasure of “no”
often choose one strategy:
“Better I am always on top
than even once down below again.”
This is not about cruelty.
This is about fear of repetition.
I threw up again.
Saliva, snot, blood, tears.
“Guys, give me a cigarette.”
“Damn, you look like shit,” Hades grimaced with disgust.
“Go fuck yourself, delicate hands.”
I wiped myself, lit a cigarette,
and tried to digest it.
Okay.
Okay.
I get it.
I think.
Wait.
No.
Yes. Exactly.
This is about me.
Holy shit.
Even when I understand
that physically and psychologically
they cannot harm me,
I still need
my word to be the last one.
As if I don’t believe it.
As if I always have to stay on guard.
If I’m soft —
they’ll hit that.
So I hold the line.
I sit and stay silent,
but with a snarl.
And they know it.
If needed —
I’ll growl.
And this — is bad.
Because these are my people.
My real family.
And inside the family
I’m still ready to defend myself.
This is not real safety.
This is not good.
The brain nodded.
“This is the key knot.
Here we go deeper.”
The question, if I’m completely honest:
do you believe that there are, in principle, people
who, once they get power,
will not use it against you?
“No,” I answered immediately. “I can’t imagine that.
If he doesn’t use power now —
that means he’s waiting for the moment
to strike.”
“Accepted.”
So.
You don’t want power.
You want support stronger than yourself.
When you command
and people obey —
you don’t feel pleasure.
You feel weight.
Because execution =
→ you are alpha
→ you are above
→ they lean on you
→ you are carrying everything again
And you said the main thing:
“How can I lean on those
who lean on me?”
Here — is the truth.
👉 Your nervous system
does not want to be the top of the pyramid.
It wants to hand over the weight.
Why the “last word” used to be vital
Before, it was like this for you:
around you — people who
— don’t keep their word
— don’t think
— don’t calculate consequences
— hystericize
— swing power without responsibility
In such an environment, the last word
is not about ego.
The last word = a fuse.
As long as you speak last:
— no one pushes through
— no one forces
— no one harms
It was a forced leadership position.
Not chosen.
Survival-based.
A man
When you see that a man:
— thinks
— calculates
— holds context
— covers the rear
— takes responsibility
— is not an idiot
👉 your need completely switches off:
to command
to control
to have the last word
You don’t become weak.
You give up control voluntarily,
because it’s safe.
And here is the key:
Your power is not a need.
Your power is compensation
for the absence of reliable support.
The most important paradox you just saw
You are simultaneously:
— very strong
— and very tired of this strength
You don’t want to be on top.
You want to be next to someone who holds stronger.
And this is not infantilism.
This is a healthy feminine desire
after a long period of carrying alone.
So… yes.
Looks like yes.
I need a little time.
Wait.
…
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
We return to the question of power and the strike.
A logical conclusion from your life experience:
if a person has power —
then they have leverage
if they have leverage —
they will use it
if not now —
then later
if not openly —
then behind the scenes
👉 This is the model of the world
in which you survived.
That’s why you allow only one exception:
“If I married well.
If it’s a very good family.”
Meaning not
“people can be like that,”
but a rare, almost mythological case.
And then you say something very important:
“It will take me a long time
to even begin to believe this.”
This is fundamental.
You don’t deny the possibility.
You just don’t trust quickly.
And this is not damage.
This is absolutely adequate to your path.

2. The second truth:
your inner leader does NOT want power —
it wants to leave the stage.
This part
is tired.
Overloaded.
Has been the “only adult” for too long.
Has held the world for too long
because there was no one else.
And when you imagine
that someone else truly holds things,
it doesn’t fight for power.
It leaves.
Calmly.
Happily.
👉 This is a key marker.
If power were your true need,
this part would cling.
But it lets go.

“Accepted.”
“Guys, is there any more whiskey?”
“Here.”
“Thanks.”

3. What this actually means
(a very important conclusion)
You’re not afraid of losing power.
You’re afraid of:
— ending up again under the power of someone
who uses it against you
— ending up trapped again
— being forced again
That’s why you hold power
until
you see real support.
Not potential.
Not promised.
But factual.
Verifiable.
Repeated.

4. A very precise distinction
that puts everything in place
Right now there are two figures inside you.
🔹 The protector-leader
He appeared because:
— there was no reliable adult
— there was no safe authority
— you couldn’t relax
He doesn’t want to be a leader.
He wants to take off the armor and disappear.
“Yeah, that’s about me,” Mushu snorted.
I sprayed whiskey in a fountain.
“About you?”
Mushu nodded.
“Everything here is about me.”
“Oh, please,” Ursula drawled.
🔹 You — the real one
Fold your paws.
Don’t decide.
Don’t carry.
Be in the field of someone strong,
smart,
responsible.
And this is not regression.
This is a return to a natural distribution of roles.

5. Why it’s so hard for you to believe
that a person won’t play against you
Because you know:
power + infantilism = violence
power + stupidity = chaos
power + ego = humiliation
You have hardly seen examples where there is:
power + maturity + responsibility + respect for boundaries.
That’s why your system speaks honestly:
“Show me.
For a long time.
Stably.
Without failures.
Then we’ll see.”
This is not mistrust.
This is strict selection.
For fuck’s sake, I howled.
“My God, what a pile of shit…”
“You said it,” the brain nodded.

And here is the last, most dangerous thought:
“If he is that whole and reliable —
then something is wrong.
Why would he want me?
There has to be a catch.
I need to be more attentive.”
“Look,” said the brain.
“‘Why would he want me?’”
This is not suspicion.
This is fear of being an object, not a subject.
When you are the subject:
— you choose
— you decide
— you control
— you carry
When you are chosen:
— they look at you
— they want you
— you become the object of someone else’s decision
And here your system switches on anxiety.
Because in your experience:
being chosen = becoming vulnerable = falling into a trap.

Why “a person doesn’t manipulate” feels suspicious
This is a very important moment. And you caught it perfectly.
Your logic is this — and it’s not insane:
if a person manipulates → I see the danger
if a person bargains → I understand the rules
if a person pressures → I know where to defend myself
And if he:
— doesn’t bargain
— doesn’t manipulate
— doesn’t pressure
— doesn’t demand
→ I don’t understand where the threat is.
And then the brain makes the only conclusion available:
“The danger is hidden.
Which means it’s even worse.”
This is not distrust of the good.
This is hyper-training in threat recognition.
“Hyper-training!” Maverick and Rooster and I shouted joyfully.
“Hey, I’m an agent, actually. A super agent.”
“Are you done?” the brain asked.
“Of course.”
I threw up again.
“Sorry…”
Hic. I hiccupped.

The most important thing: you don’t believe in the motive “because he loves.”
You said it directly:
“I don’t believe a person can choose me simply because he loves me.
He’s doing it for something.”
This is not cynicism.
This is the logic of your world.
In your experience:
— a price always followed choice
— care led to dependency
— security led to a trap
— “I’ll take care of you” led to the impossibility of leaving
That’s why love without accounting feels impossible.

The real fear
The most terrifying scenario for you is not betrayal,
not deception,
not loss of status.
The most terrifying scenario is this:
“I live with someone I hate,
and I can’t leave.”
This is existential hell.
Especially if there are:
— money
— shared daily life
— dependency
— a closed door
This is not fear of relationships.
This is fear of a trap.

And now — the main, liberating conclusion
Nazokat,
you’re not afraid of love.
You’re afraid of irreversibility.
You’re afraid of a situation where:
— the choice is made
— the doors are closed
— you’re inside
— and there is no exit
That’s why you:
— check motives
— look for a catch
— hold power
— don’t give up the last word
Not because you’re power-hungry.
But because you cannot tolerate losing the exit.
And this — is the truth.

I howled.
The pain was like a knife.
Again.
“Yes, that happened too,” Hades nodded.
I laughed.
My God, it feels like
all the horror that can possibly be imagined
has already happened to me.
Fucking.
Fucking parents.
I took a drink of whiskey.
“Burn it, friend. Go on.”

Then comes another fear:
“I’ll be the one carrying again.”
“I’ll be the one investing more.”
“I’ll end up being the one who needs it more.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s true.”
And suddenly I caught myself in a strange honesty:
it seems to me
that the only ones I’m truly comfortable with
are teenagers.
Because they’re alive.

Why
You’ve already been in relationships where:
— you’re alive
— you speak
— you share
— you invest
And in return:
a phone
an empty gaze
“yeah, go on”
emotional laziness
And the scariest part wasn’t the lack of love.
The scariest part was loneliness together.
That is deeply traumatizing.

The key thing you need to hear
You’re confusing two different things.
And this is not your fault.
The old scenario
You invest because:
— you’re afraid to lose
— you want to hold on
— you compensate for coldness
— you try to revive the dead
What you call “teenage”
You invest because:
— you’re having fun
— you feel alive
— you feel safe
— you are invested in in return
These are fundamentally different states.

The most important compass (remember this)
❗ You carry a relationship only when:
— you’re in pain
— you’re cold
— you’re not heard
— you feel lonely next to someone
— and you keep investing anyway
If you feel:
— light
— amused
— free
— and there’s liveliness in return
→ this is not carrying.
This is being in contact.

Why you’re afraid of “becoming too loving”
Because before,
your love was not met,
and you had to carry for two.
Now you’re not afraid of love.
You’re afraid of inequality in liveliness.

“Got it…
My God, what a mess.”
“Yeah, you look pathetic,” Hades snorted.
I spat.
“Fuck off, or I’ll smear you with vomit.”
Hades grimaced,
Mushu and I burst out laughing.
Such a fucking girl.
Just like my ex.
“For fuck’s sake…”
I rolled my eyes.
I still have to get on a call with that animal on Wednesday.
Another showdown.
“Hang in there,” Ursula said.
“Thanks. I’ll try.”
“I’ll get so drunk I’ll barely be able to think.”
“Oh, he’ll lose his mind.”
“That’s the plan.”
We bumped fists.
“What an asshole.”
“No kidding.”
“How did we even get involved with him?”
“It’s Nate’s fault,” I drawled.
“He should’ve intercepted me before all the shit in my life.”
“Then he would’ve had to adopt you.”
“Ew.”
“That’s not just ew.”
I shuddered.
“Whatever. I’d go through all of it again,
just to be with him.”
“You’re sick.”
“Guys, have you seen Nate?”
“Oh, Nate…”
And we melted again.

“Ready?” the brain asked.
“Yes.” I shook my head. “Sex will have to wait for now.”
“Let’s go, friend.”
And then the devil appeared.
“Want a cigarette?”
“Yeah.”
“So, how’s work?”
“Fine.”
He lit up.

You hate the idea of “investing”
because for you it equals carrying.
There’s falsehood in the very wording
“investing in a relationship.”
For you it sounds like:
— work
— obligation
— tension
— the need to be convenient
— walking on tiptoes
— constant self-control
And you’re right.
Where relationships feel like work —
that’s not closeness.
That’s servicing someone else’s fragility.
You don’t want to:
— service someone’s resentments
— guess moods
— be afraid to say the wrong thing
— filter yourself
— be a “careful woman”
It burned you out.
What you want is not irresponsibility.
It’s the freedom to be yourself.
Your format:
— like with friends
— light
— with humor
— with bodily liveliness
— without puffed-up cheeks
— without a theater of importance
— without fragile egos
This is a stable connection
where no one keeps the other
on the hook of grievances.
You want people who have:
— a sense of humor
— inner stability
— the capacity to withstand a living other

Your key marker is SILENCE
And it’s very precise.
You said a brilliant thing:
“I like silence in relationships.”
For you silence means:
— I’m not carrying
— I’m not entertaining
— I’m not servicing
— I’m not proving my value
And if in that moment:
— he himself thinks about how you’ll be together
— he brings topics
— he offers movement
— he’s in contact, not on his phone
→ then you’re not at work.
→ then you’re in a living relationship.

“Woooow,” we breathed out.
“Guys, not everything is lost.”
The brain nodded.

An important distinction worth fixing
You don’t want relationships where:
— you’re the energy source
— he’s the consumer
— you’re the engine
— he’s the passenger
You want mutual presence without effort.
Where:
— no one carries
— no one “invests”
— no one tries
And instead there is:
— interest
— silence
— laughter
— bodily calm
— the feeling: I’m allowed to be myself

Why “touchiness” and “important asses” trigger you so much
Because it always means one thing:
there’s a person nearby who needs to be emotionally serviced.
And you no longer agree to:
— be a container
— be a nanny
— be a regulator of someone else’s psyche
This is not cruelty.
This is a boundary after overload.
I nodded — and the room swayed.
Damn. I think I’m completely drunk.

A very important conclusion
Nazokat,
you’re not afraid of intimacy.
You’re afraid of relationships
where you have to be convenient,
not alive.
And you’re absolutely right —
those relationships are truly toxic.

Your new formula
(not a rule — a compass)
“If you can be silent next to me —
and the connection doesn’t fall apart,
but instead becomes denser —
these are my people.”
If, however:
— silence causes anxiety
— resentment
— passive aggression
— retreat into the phone
— coldness
→ then this is not closeness.
→ this is not closeness.
This is dependence on your servicing.
And the last, very important thing:
You are not “difficult.”
You stopped agreeing to poor-quality contact.
Your “teenage” format
is not an escape from adulthood.
It’s a return to naturalness, where:
— you don’t have to play a role
— you don’t have to fit
— you don’t have to be a “woman with a function”
You can be a human.
And this is a huge step.
“Ha, suck it!” I laughed. “See? I made a huge step.”
The Porsche exploded with music.
I’m a devil.
All of mine are lighting it up.
For the first time in a long while, I breathe.
“Guys, do we have vodka?”
“Pff, of course.”
“Then pour.”
“Ready.”
And then — a screech.
Sharp.
Deafening.
I doubled over.
The bottles flew apart.
The cigarette burned my hand.
“F***…”
“Sorry…”
The watch unclasped and fell.
The heel slipped —
the Cartier case cracked.
“A-a-ah… for fuck’s sake.”
Everyone froze.
“Damn…” they exhaled. “Nate gave those to you.”
“Yes.”
The watch isn’t just damaged.
It’s broken.
I cried.
From anger.
From hurt.
From exhaustion.
“Fuck…”
And immediately — a flash.
“This is your fault,” I snapped at the brain.
“I’m sorry, please…”
“Oh…”
“Well damn.”
I exhaled.
Lifted my head. I’ll deal with this later.
“Let’s finish.”
And suddenly —
Flashing lights.
Slow.
Like in a movie.
“Fuck…
Fuck.
Fuck.”
Drive past.
Past me, please.
Fuck, just drive past.
I lean on the hood of the Porsche.
The metal is icy even through the coat.
My jeans are frozen,
my legs wobble slightly.
“Hic…”
The headlights slide over me
and suddenly slow down.
Not sharply.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
The light stays on me.
The car doesn’t move on.
A turn signal clicks.
Snow crunches under the wheels.
The patrol car smoothly pulls in alongside.
A pause.
That exact pause
where there’s still hope
they’ll just look and leave.
But no.
The door opens.
Then the second one.
Thump.
Thump.
Two silhouettes step out of the car.
One stays slightly behind,
the other walks toward me.
Unhurried.
Hands free,
but the body tense.
The headlights now hit straight into my face.
I feel myself being scanned:
coat,
hands,
bottles by the curb,
the Porsche,
me.
“Hic…”
“Miss,” the voice is even, calm.
“Do you need help?”
He stops at a distance.
Doesn’t come close.
So that he can react
at any moment.
I try to straighten up,
but the hood slips out from under my hand,
and I lean onto it again.
“No…” I wave my hand. “It’s fine.”
And immediately it’s clear
how that sounds.
I reek.
Alcohol.
Cigarettes.
Cold.
Meanwhile the second officer
silently walks around the car,
looks into the interior,
at the ground,
at the keys.
“Miss,” the first one takes half a step forward,
“What’s going on here?”
I swallow.
The world floats slightly,
like a camera losing focus.
“I wasn’t driving,” I say quickly.
“And I wasn’t going to.”
I nod toward the car.
Too sharply.
“It won’t let me.”
“Who?” he asks calmly.
Damn it.
“The car,” I smirk and immediately grimace.
“It won’t start.”
He doesn’t smile.
At all.
“Miss, please step away from the vehicle.”
I try to take a step.
And immediately understand
that I misjudged
the distance to the ground.
The officer instantly raises his palm.
“Easy.
Stay where you are.”
The second one is closer now.
No threat.
But ready.
“Have you consumed alcohol today?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Hiccup.
“Yes.”
A short silence.
Very short.
But everything is already decided in it.
“Alright.
Please turn around.”
Cold metal
touches my wrists.
Click.
It hurts.
Humiliating.
And for some reason…
relieving.
But very familiar.
This is not my first time in handcuffs.
“You are not under arrest,” the voice sounds even, by the book.
“But you are being detained.”
I nod.
I nod too much.
More to myself than to anyone else.
The Prada coat
lands on the back seat of the patrol car —
neatly,
alien,
as if it ended up in the wrong frame.
Cheap plastic.
Radio.
The smell of coffee.
For fuck’s sake.
I look at my sleeves
and think
how absurd this is.
These people’s annual income
is less than the cost of this coat.
“Don’t be arrogant,” the brain snaps.
I nod.
Silently.

The station
The station looks
like a TV set.
Too clean.
Too even.
Too plastic.
White light cuts into my eyes.
It smells cheap.
Everything here is cheap like cardboard,
smells of antiseptic
and something old,
stagnant.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Ugh.
My hands are still behind my back.
For fuck’s sake, what humiliation.
The floor shines
as if it’s washed every hour,
but that doesn’t make it alive.
A cell.
Bars.
A bench.
The holding cell.
Looks like a dump
someone tried to clean up
and gave up halfway through.
I sit down.
My back touches the cold wall.
The metal answers in my spine.
My legs stretch forward,
heels sliding along the floor.
I take out a cigarette.
My hands are shaking —
not from fear,
from exhaustion.
“Miss, smoking is not allowed here.”
“What kind of people are you…”
The voice sounds dull,
as if it’s not mine.
I snort,
put on my headphones,
press the back of my head against the wall.
The plastic is cold.
The music starts immediately,
without an intro.
It covers me.
Mutes the light.
Mutes the smells.
Mutes the thoughts.
Only
breathing remains,
the heartbeat,
and the feeling
that the world has finally
left me alone.
I exhale.
“Come on, friend. Burn it.”
This is not sustainable.
How do you know they’re not here just because it’s convenient for them?
Honestly?
You can’t know that in advance.
And that’s scary.
But there is one sign.
It always shows up.
People who need you
as long as you’re giving:
— disappear when you get tired
— get offended by your silence
— demand attention
— make you feel guilty
People who are yours:
— stay
— don’t demand
— don’t bargain
— don’t turn your silence into a problem
Why do “the cage”
and “clench your teeth” switch on immediately?
Because you know the script too well:
we’re kind of family
we’re kind of close
we’re kind of at the same table
But at the same time:
you endure
you swallow
you can’t say “ugh”
you can’t laugh
you’re obliged to be adult, wise, understanding
This is not a family.
This is a collective with obligations.
Your body is screaming:
“I don’t want to go there anymore.”
And it’s right.
I shook my head.
“Damn…”
I need to check
whether the body can handle it.
I lower my gaze.
A hand.
Blood.
A thin, warm line
runs down my wrist
and drips onto the floor.
“Oh, fuck…”
How did I not notice?
When?
“Damn, I miss boxing…
I haven’t been to the gym for a week.”
Mine exchange looks
and bump fists.
“Yeah. That’s a thing.”
I swallow.
“Alright. Let’s keep going.
Wait… are they even going to patch us up or not?”
Who the hell knows.
I lift my head toward the bars.
“Hey, officers…
do you have something like a bandage?”
He looks at me.
And suddenly…
his eyes widen.
Too much.
“For God’s sake,” Hades mutters.
“Why is he shaking like that? She just cut herself a bit.”
“Guys,” I lower my gaze,
“this is a real cut.”
And at that moment
the world just
shut off.
Darkness slammed shut,
like a lid.
“Fuck,” flashes somewhere.
“Classic, Nazokat.”
In the darkness
the soul carefully
detaches from the body.
I’m not here anymore.
I’m somewhere with a cup of tea.
Milan and Sheng are discussing something —
seems like a wedding.
Or some other nonsense
I absolutely don’t care about.
“Alright, buddy,” I say to the void.
“Go on. Burn it further.”
And suddenly —
click.
I snap back.
“Fuck…
Did I black out?
A minute? Two?”
Strange.
Usually in situations like this
you come to in a hospital.
The light is the same.
The bars are the same.
The music in my headphones has glitched.
The body is heavy.
My arm aches.

You’re not “dependent.”
You’re highly sensitive to the field.
It’s important to name this correctly.
You’re not about
“I need a man to feel good.”
You’re about something else.
Your body instantly reads another person’s state —
and either relaxes
or tightens.
This is not weakness.
It’s high sensitivity of the nervous system.
People like this:
— feel tension before words
— respond to pressure with the body
— can’t “tune it out”
— can’t get used to it
— suffocate where others endure
You’re not overreacting.
Your body doesn’t know how to lie.
Why is a man’s state so critical for you?
Because a man in tension is:
hidden aggression
suppressed anger
expectation
pressure without words
And for your system this sounds simple:
“It’s unsafe here. Someone might attack.”
Even if no one does anything.
That’s why:
— you lose your breath

— you want to disappear
— you can’t relax
— you become hyper-vigilant
This is not a whim.
It’s instinct.
Why does a relaxed man = calm?
When he is:
— relaxed
— content
— not demanding
— not evaluating
— not waiting
Your body reads:
“I don’t need to defend myself.
I don’t need to perform.
I don’t need to be on alert.”
And you:
exhale
You soften.
You come alive.
You become real.
You don’t want to be “under a man.”
You want to be next to someone who does not threaten your breathing.
This is not only about men.
You know this yourself.
If there is someone in the room
who energetically dislikes you,
pressures you,
keeps silent with tension —
you start to suffocate.
Because you cannot live next to:
passive aggression,
hidden resentment,
pressure without words.
And this is not a flaw.
This is very fine tuning.
The most important thing you need to hear:
Nazokat,
you cannot live next to tense people.
Not because you “can’t handle it.”
But because you physically break down.
Where others endure for years,
you start to get sick,
to suffocate,
to disappear.
“Yes…” I exhaled.
“That’s true.”
Why do you need a relaxed man so much?
Not for support.
Not for power.
Not for money.
But because his relaxation
gives your body permission to exist.
And this is an absolutely healthy need.
A very important permission
(I’ll say this directly):
You have the right to:
— leave places where you are pressured
— not explain why it’s hard for you
— not endure someone else’s tension
— choose people by state, not by qualities
This is not selfishness.
This is nervous-system hygiene.
A small anchor worth keeping:
“If it’s hard to breathe next to someone —
this is not my person,
not my place,
and not my moment.”
No analysis.
No justifications.
“Exactly,” I smirked.
“Sounds great.”
I lifted my head.
“By the way…
where are my superheroes?
Aren’t Nate, Jonathan, and Josh
supposed to have gotten me out of here already?”
I turned toward the bars.
“Hey, officers,
when am I getting released anyway?”
The Black woman at the desk
laughed —
loudly,
with pleasure.
“Listen, princess,” she said.
“You’re sitting here for another day.
Or maybe all fifteen.”
I choked on air.
“What?”
No.
No way.
She looked me up and down.
Slowly.
With that sticky, evaluating look
that immediately makes space feel tight.
“What’s she staring at?” Hades snorted.
“She’s clearly a regular in places like this.”
“What, not your type? Don’t like these?” Mushu added.
We bumped fists.
“Listen, miss,” I said,
“I’m not messing with you — so don’t mess with me.”
“Oh come on,” she drawled and smirked.
“What, you think you’re tough?”
“Yes,” I said calmly.
And in that moment I understood —
she was gearing up.
The body knows it before the head.
She lunged forward.
I stood up from the bench.
Sharply.
Too sharply.
My legs found the floor on their own.
Shoulders lifted.
Hands up.
I wanted to believe
this was what they taught me in boxing,
but my head was spinning,
the world was floating,
focus jumping.
“You want a fight?”
“Let’s go,” I said.
The officers, used to noise, didn’t turn around.
I hesitated.
Too late.
A punch.
Straight to the face.
For fuck’s sake.
A flash.
A dull crack.
The world swayed.
Blood poured instantly —
hot,
salty,
ran to my lips.
Saliva spilled out and I threw up.
My nose.
Broken.
“Oh wow, such a delicate one,” she hissed.
“Come here, bitch.”
“And what are you going to do to me, princess?”
she laughed with wild cackling.
“Easy, Nazokat,” the brain said.
But I am fire for a reason.
I didn’t think.
At all.
The body moved on its own.
I kicked —
hard,
from below,
however it came out.
The heel instantly sliced her abdomen.
A thin line of blood signaled danger.
Shit.
She collapsed instantly.
As if someone turned off the light.
The body hit the floor
without a sound.
Silence.
Then — a scream.
The officers rushed in.
They grabbed my shoulders,
dragged me back,
hands behind my back,
face to the wall.
“Hey! Hey! Calm down!
Calm down! Get a doctor here, now!”
I was breathing in jerks.
Blood was dripping onto the floor.
My hands were shaking.
“I’m fine,” I squeezed out.
“Fine.
Back off.”
They were looking at me
with contempt
and irritation,
like at a problem
they now had to deal with.
I demonstratively spat on the floor,
showing clear disrespect and contempt.
And then Nate burst in.
The door slammed into the wall.
Metal rang.
Someone jerked aside.
He was in the room instantly —
big,
tense,
like a compressed spring.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER. NOW.”
The voice was low.
Even.
Metallic.
His jaw was locked.
His fists were clenched so hard
the knuckles went white.
His neck was tight.
Veins stood out on his arms.
His hair was sticking up,
like after a fight.
Eyes dark.
Hard.
I swallowed.
Oh, I don’t envy you guys.
He’ll cut all of you down.
“I am trying very hard
to speak calmly right now,”
he said slowly.
The silence grew dense.
Tangible.
The officers exchanged looks.
“Sir, the woman is detained.
We have the right to hold her.”
He wiped his lower lip.
I know what that means.
He does that in meetings,
in presentations.
It means he’s about to clearly mark his power.
God, he’s so damn good.
And at that moment
the world screeched again.
Thin.
Cutting.
“For fuck’s sake…
For fuck’s sake…”
The pain hit immediately.
Sharp.
Without warning.
I folded in half,
like someone collapsed me.
The air was knocked out of my chest.
And then — hands.
Not rough.
Not hard.
Josh.
He was there instantly.
Caught me.
Pressed me to himself,
one palm on the back of my head,
the other under my ribs.
“Hey, hey…”
his voice somewhere above me.
“I’m here.
I’ve got you.”
He spoke quietly.
Evenly.
As if we were alone.
I looked up at him.
“Damn…” I breathed out.
“Josh, hi.
What took you so long?”
He looked at me.
At the blood.
At the handcuffs.
And only then
he inhaled.
Deeply.
“My God, Nazokat…”
Nate was still standing in front.
Broad back.
Tense shoulders.
He didn’t turn around —
but I knew
he was controlling everything.
Jonathan came in last.
Calmly.
Coldly.
He didn’t raise his voice.
Just nodded
and showed some kind of badge.
Metal.
Engraving.
A movement far too confident.
“What the hell is that?”
flashed through my head.
“What authority are they even talking about?”
Doesn’t matter.
They’ll get me out of here.
Words started spinning.
Voices overlapped.
Like bad sound in a movie.
The guys were shouting.
Foaming at the mouth.
At someone.
For me.
Nate was furious.
Real.
Alive.
I looked at them from below
and suddenly smiled.
Weakly.
Stupidly.
I’ve got such badass guys.
The light wavered.
The sound dropped out.
The world
slowly
went dark.

Final check
What you’re describing
is not “shared interests.”
And it’s important to distinguish that.
You are not about:
— identical views
— identical tastes
— identical hobbies
You are about a shared field of aliveness.
About a state where:
— topics don’t have to be invented
— conversation doesn’t hold by effort
— no one initiates on purpose
— no one drags anyone along
And life itself flows between you.
Why this is critical for you
Because the moment there is a need to:
— “keep the conversation going”
— “be interesting”
— “come up with a topic”
— “engage so it doesn’t hang”
you instantly end up at work.
And your body already knows without fail:
work = a cage.
That’s why the psyche says honestly, in advance:
“If we’ll have to hold something — we’re not going there.”
And it’s right.
Your reference point is adolescent connectedness
(and this is not infantilism)
You said it very precisely:
“When you’re a teenager, you don’t think at all about what to talk about.”
Because there is:
— spontaneity
— goofing around
— a shared frequency
— no role
— no “should”
This is not a lower form of contact.
It’s a higher one.
Adults who lose this
start to:
— talk “about business”
— discuss people
— discuss problems
— discuss statuses
And yes —
in that kind of space it’s hard to breathe.
A very important distinction
(this will protect you)
❌ Not your people:
— you have to “talk” with them
— topics run out
— silence becomes tense
— you feel responsible for the contact
— after meeting them, you’re exhausted
✅ Your people:
— you chatter “about nothing”
— the conversation jumps
— topics are born on their own
— you can be silent and laugh
— you can interrupt
— you can be stupid
— afterward you have more energy than before
This is a simple, bodily criterion.
It doesn’t lie.
Why you want “shared madness” so much
Because “madness”
is a marker of safety.
When people:
— aren’t afraid to be idiots
— don’t hold face
— don’t guard status
— don’t get offended over small things
it means one thing:
there’s no hidden aggression nearby.
And for your nervous system this sounds like:
“Here, I can exhale.”
We bumped fists.
Finally — the purge is over.
And it feels not like a conclusion,
but like coming home.
I came to.
A white ceiling.
Soft light.
The smell — clean, hospital,
but no longer frightening.
Fuck…
I turned my head —
and everything immediately fell into place.
My guys.
All here.
By the room.
Nate closest of all.
Sitting too straight,
as if afraid to move
and scare the moment away.
“Hi, kitten,” quietly.
“Hi, my love.”
He smiles.
Jonathan by the window,
already with a phone to his ear.
Speaking calmly,
in short phrases.
Handling things.
Josh nearby,
but also not fully here —
eyes darting,
counting something,
holding something in his head.
I look at Nate again.
“Nate.”
“Huh?”
“Do you know how much I love you?”
He freezes.
And smiles.
Inside me
everything melts.
Oh.
God, he’s so sweet.
“So,” Hades grumbles,
“when are they letting us out already?”
In my head right now
there’s only one thing.
When.
Can.
I.
Finally.
Be alone with Nate.
Without officers.
Without doctors.
Without protocols.
Just lie down next to him,
bury my nose in his neck
and finally
hold
nothing.
And I hope afterward
to finally have sex with him.