On the discomfort of forced closeness.

Lost these weeks — could be winter, maybe the quiet sameness pressing in. The weight of constant observation, the tiredness of measuring every gesture, every word. Somewhere along the way, a part of me drifts away.

Sharing has always come easily. Stories spill out, pulled forward by conversation, by resonance, by the want to connect. It used to feel simple, effortless. Now it feels dangerous. People creep in, quiet at first, until suddenly they’re too close, moving through my world as if it belongs to them. It makes me uneasy. 気持ち悪い.

Claiming knowledge. Claiming friendship. They use my name as if it belongs to them, crossing boundaries as if they didn’t exist. Subtle invasions, reaching into spaces and fragments of my life that aren’t theirs to touch.

I wonder if I shared too much, too quickly — if I let things spill beyond what I meant. Even if I did, it shouldn’t be taken for granted. Attention, empathy, understanding — they are mine to choose, not theirs to claim.

All I can do is step back. Let it move quietly. Without attention. Hoping to reclaim what is mine.

Connections aren’t possessions. They grow in their own time — quietly, in small gestures, in repeated moments, in the pauses no one notices. Sometimes they fail before they begin. Sometimes they arrive unexpectedly, without reason. But when someone tries to force them, to mold them, to hold them too tightly, all that remains is a quiet unease, the kind that lingers when something isn’t quite right. Unbearable.