There are parts of me that were never whole. Versions that faded before they fully came to be, pieces scattered in silences, postponed decisions, unlived affections. This book is the inventory of those incomplete presences — echoes of who I was, who I wasn't, who I became while trying to survive myself.

Here, each text is a whisper from within. There is no plot. No beginning, no end. Just a body trying to listen to itself amid the rubble. These are unstitched memories, voiceless emotions, lapses in identity that live in the space between feeling and silencing. Fragments of me that, even in absence, still shape who I am.

It's a journey made in pieces. A hesitant reunion with what remained after the losses. A possible embrace in imperfection. Because perhaps being whole was never the goal — perhaps it was always about accepting, with tenderness, the quiet beauty of still existing, even as everything inside slowly falls apart.