The silence weighs heavier than usual. Sometimes I feel like the walls of this library are more alive than I am—at least they hold secrets. All I have are questions.
Why am I so alone? Why can't I find comfort, not even in the words of books? They used to offer me refuge, a momentary relief. They let me forget. But now… now it feels like even those stories no longer belong to me. How is it possible that, surrounded by so many fictional lives, I feel lonelier than ever?
The library no longer protects me. How many times have I wished for the stories to come alive, for someone—anyone—to speak to me? But everything remains a hollow echo. I wonder if I'm meant to stay like this, trapped in this endless silence.
Lately, I question everything. Who am I, really? Sometimes I feel so confused, like something inside me is screaming to get out, but I can't name it.
Dina… Silvia… Two names, but one person? Each day, the line that separates them becomes more blurred. And when I make a decision, I don't know if it was Silvia who made it… or Dina.
It hurts not to know the answer.