"All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room."
Blaise Pascal
Let me explain how you ruin a human.
It's not hard.
Honestly, I've done it in my sleep.
It doesn't require violence or brand-new trauma.
All you need is a constant voice, a well-planted doubt,
and a fear, or an uncomfortable memory, right before sleep.
I'm an expert at that.
I have years of experience.
No formal training, but an impressive track record.
What I can't quite explain yet
is why, lately,
I'm not doing such a good job.
I don't remember exactly when it started.
I only know that every time Ailín sat on the edge of the bed
and began repeating
Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo,
I spent more time at the sea.
Floating.
On my back.
Under warm sunlight.
No catastrophic thoughts.
No mental lists of past mistakes.
No carefully designed emotional self-destruction plans.
And that…
that was not normal.
One day, while I was at the sea, I waited.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
I cleared my throat.
"Well," I muttered,
"by now we should be reviewing past decisions, hypothetical futures,
and at least three catastrophic scenarios."
"Are we going to panic," I added,
"or is that no longer trending?"
Nothing.
She didn't answer.
Unforgivable.
…
At first, I thought it was just a phase.
Humans love phases.
The yoga phase.
The green-juice phase.
The I'm healing phase.
They always pass.
So I waited for my moment.
The anxiety spike.
The emotional spiral.
The uncontrollable urge to overthink Dylan, the future, her age, her knees.
But instead…
She went to work.
She laughed with Lucy.
She ate lunch without rushing.
And I…
I was benched.
…
Dangerous people.
The emotionally regulated kind.
They said things like:
"You're amazing."
"You have such beautiful energy."
"You really know who you are."
Excuse me.
Who approved this emotional inflation?
Which, for the record, I was not consulted on.
I watched from my usual corner, waiting for Ailín to think:
They're exaggerating.
It's not that big a deal.
But no.
This time…
she believed it.
And the more she believed it,
the more time I spent at the sea.
"Hey," I told her one day,
"at this rate my name is going to become obsolete. Oscurita no longer applies. I'll have to switch to Charcoal."
Rebranding is hard, but I'm flexible.
She laughed.
That didn't help either.
…
Ailín was different.
Lighter.
More confident.
More present.
Whenever she met with Andrea and Dylan's name came up, because of course it did, I got ready.
I settled in.
I stretched.
Drama-ready.
Popcorn mentally prepared.
Andrea talked about Dylan's romantic adventures.
Still in full playboy mode.
Unleashed.
Enjoying the attention.
And Ailín…
joked.
"Well," she said,
"after twenty-five years with the same woman… it was kind of expected."
EXCUSE ME?
I side-eyed her, waiting for the internal tremor.
The sting.
The comparison.
Nothing.
Just calm.
And, of course…
back home,
straight to the sea again.
…
It became routine.
Twice a day, minimum.
I got so organized that one day I told her:
"Look, I'm all set for these scheduled trips. I've got my bag, sunscreen, sunglasses, hat. Everything under control."
"But when you take me without warning, my whole system falls apart. So please, give me some notice next time."
She promised nothing.
And sure enough,
she kept taking me without warning.
But I'll admit something, and this stays between us:
I always came back better.
…
Ailín was busy growing.
New projects.
New goals.
One day she came home excited.
"I signed up for a Korean course."
I almost drowned at the sea.
"Korean?" I asked.
"The K-dramas are clearly getting to you. You already had three languages. Now I'll have to learn another one just to interrupt you properly.
But hey… it works.
"With this new version of you, I'll turn your life into a full K-drama.
Sixteen episodes.
Emotional cliffhangers included."
Polyglot Oscurita.
This was not in my original job description.
…
So here we are.
Between work.
New friendships.
Unexpected trips to the beach.
And one more language.
Ailín growing.
And me…
uneasy.
"You're changing," I told her.
"Careful. People don't like women who change."
She opened one eye.
"Don't you like it?" she asked.
I froze.
Princess of internal chaos.
Queen of sabotage.
Speechless.
"Well," I recovered,
"I just don't know what my place is in all of this."
Her expression softened.
And that was worse.
"You're not going to disappear," she said calmly.
"You just… won't be in control of my life anymore."
Excuse me?
NO MORE CONTROL?
I nearly dropped the steering wheel.
I've been at the wheel since her childhood.
I created the fears.
The doubts.
The perfectly timed catastrophes.
And now she wanted me to be…
the co-pilot?
Absolutely not.
…
Days passed.
I kept showing up.
Of course.
I commented on her clothes.
Her emails.
The mere existence of Dylan.
But something was different.
She listened.
Then she chose.
Sometimes she listened to me.
Sometimes she didn't.
And that's when I understood.
I no longer had control.
…
I hate that.
Truly.
But I hate something more.
Losing her.
So if this practice, this chanting, means I become quieter…
more observant…
less destructive…
Fine.
I adapt.
I always do.
But let's be clear:
I'm still Oscurita.
Shadow.
Sarcastic.
Critical.
Witness.
And if my human is stepping into the light…
I'll be right behind her.
Watching.
Learning.
Making sure she doesn't forget that I'm still here.
Because even light
casts a shadow.
And when no one's looking…
that shadow starts noticing things.
…
Time kept passing.
Ailín, as always, giving her best at everything.
Too much.
I was learning to be a good co-pilot,
but something unsettled me.
Her need to do everything right.
To not fail.
To hold it all together.
"Of course," I thought.
Emotional multitasking.
A woman's favorite extreme sport.
You always do it like this.
And you almost never stop to ask yourself if you should.
And then I felt it.
Something wasn't right.
Ailín called it tiredness.
A long week.
Age.
Life.
Not me.
I felt the body before she did.
The extra second it took her to stand up from the chair.
The way she leaned on the wall when getting up.
The slight weakness in her right leg,
appearing and disappearing like it was nothing.
"You're exaggerating," she said without looking at me.
"Don't start."
I didn't insist.
Lately, when I insist, she ignores me.
But I took note.
…
That night, sitting on the bed, she took a deep breath before chanting.
One second.
Two.
It wasn't pain.
It was weight.
As if her body was carrying something
it didn't know where to put down.
I watched her close her eyes with more effort than usual.
I saw her shoulders slowly drop, surrendered.
And for the first time in a long while,
I didn't want to scare her.
I wanted her to rest.
….
The next day, it happened again.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing alarming.
Just a brief tingling in her hand.
An intense tiredness.
A mild dizziness that passed with water and silence.
She kept going.
She always does.
I watched more closely.
Not to take control.
To be ready.
Because when the body starts speaking like that,
it's not looking to negotiate.
…
I said nothing.
I didn't plant fear.
I didn't manufacture catastrophes.
I stayed.
Alert.
Because if there's one thing I've learned after all this time ruining humans,
it's that sometimes the shadow doesn't show up to push…
but to hold.