Sometimes I worry that people will say:
“this is a lie,”
“what you’re saying is untrue.”
And words like that can paralyze me, distort the whole creative current, force it into narrow channels where it cannot breathe.

Why read books at all?

Because books let you live different lives.
If you don’t read, there’s a risk of getting stuck inside your own little world —
and that’s not bad,
unless someday that little world turns into a cage.
And I’m terrified of cages.
Terrified of not noticing the moment the door shuts.

But what is truth?
Isn’t truth shaped by whoever is looking?
Doesn’t everyone have their own?
Like beauty.
What feels extraordinary to one person is ordinary to another.
What is treasure to one is dust under someone else’s feet.
So truth isn’t something fixed or frozen.
Which means — I can breathe freely.

Sometimes, when the world stretches beyond its borders,
when I and my strange little creatures peek through a half-open door,
I see marvelous things — and I love watching them.
I expand.
I learn to trust.
I learn to believe.

I’d heard, I’d known that there were men who genuinely love children.
But it always sounded like unicorns — beautiful, mythical, not from this world.
Creatures too gentle to survive reality.

And then we accidentally walked into a football practice.
The coach looked more like a wrestler than a coach —
square jaw, shaved head, shoulders like stone.
His appearance spoke for itself.
Practice began, and boys are boys:
someone pushes, someone snaps back, fights bubble up like sparks.
I tensed.
I know Roman doesn’t like this.
And I feared the coach would start shouting, proving he’s the alpha here.

Instead, he simply said, firmly and calmly:
“Don’t fight.”
Then kissed each boy on the top of the head,
picked two of them up, carried them like nothing.
My heart jolted.
He isn’t angry?
The kids don’t feel like a burden to him?
Not too loud?
Not too alive?
I kept watching.
One boy climbed into the bag for footballs — pure chaos.
I braced myself — now he’s going to yell.
But he walked over laughing:
“Alright, guys, your turn. Let’s play.”
I was stunned again.

The room held everything that usually triggers men:
children not listening, shouting, chaos, a complete lack of control.
And men so often live by control.
It pushed me into a deep reflection.

Fearing for Roman, I’m forced to analyze everything, especially anyone who comes close to him.
But everything — everything — about this man said he loved children.
All the micro-gestures, body language, the quiet movements.
I watched like a hawk — if there had been even a trace of pretense, I would’ve seen it.
But there was none.
After practice he spent another twenty minutes giving each child a piggyback ride.

That evening, holding this thought the way children hide their favorite toy,
I unfolded it carefully.
And a tiny ballerina began to dance —
graceful, turning, performing just for me.
I and my inner characters clapped.
She finished and bowed.

So… this can exist.
A man who loves a child, plays with him, cherishes him.
This can exist.
This can exist — whispered again.
I tried to exhale, still alert,
but my little world began to widen.
What once felt like a unicorn suddenly had the potential
to become real —
and, in the best way, ordinary.
Am I ready for that?

Like love.

And my body shuddered.
How can something so beautiful paralyze you and make you want to run?
Love — so desired,
so unreachable,
almost forbidden.
How frightening it is to love.

A mustang.

Why would a man want a mustang if he’s trying to tame her?
Why crave wildness if what he wants is boundaries?
If he hopes to contain freedom —
that is foolishness and cruelty.

Can a man love me without trying to control my essence?
Is he capable of loving the depth, the nakedness,
without gripping,
without reshaping,
without making me “more convenient”?
Is it possible to love freedom?
Because I am freedom.