I just finished the book. Not just on paper—but in my head, where it now lives and refuses to check out.
Elena isn't just another character in my gallery anymore. She’s the one who asked me on the way to the café down the corner if I ever feel like the city around me is breathing. I smiled and said, "Only when she's in a bad mood." She laughed, and now it feels like she really asked me.
And then there’s this blade. Not just a tool, but a story that refuses to be forgotten. I felt it in my hands while writing—that heavy, cold presence. As if it was really there, on my desk, between my cups and notes.
What truly fascinates me: I tried to let it go. I wanted to stop thinking about her and focus on other projects. But every time I try to push it away, it just pushes back harder. As if she’s saying: "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Maybe this is the moment when a story stops being just a book. When it starts to settle in you. When you wake up and suddenly Elena is in your head instead of your own thoughts.
I'm wondering now: Is that a good sign? Or am I just obsessed with my own creations? I think it's both. And that's okay too.