I Am What Remains

<p>This isn't a memoir.</p><p>It's not a story.</p><p>It's the remains.</p><p></p><p>I didn't write this book to heal inspire or redeem anything. I wrote it because I was collapsing and needed to leave a trace of what that collapse looked like from the inside. These pages aren't crafted; they're extracted. Every chapter is a piece of me I tore out while I was still breathing.</p><p></p><p>This is what happens when identity rots in real time. When memory thins. When meaning disintegrates. When silence gets loud enough to bruise the inside of your ribs. I didn't shape these thoughts to be comforting or coherent. I wrote exactly what it felt like to exist while falling apart.</p><p></p><p>I don't offer hope. I don't offer resolution. I don't offer anything but the truth I lived:</p><p>that time is a butcher not a healer</p><p>that forgetting becomes a survival instinct</p><p>that the self is something you lose long before anyone notices.</p><p></p><p>If you read this looking for a lesson you won't find one.</p><p>If you read it looking for me you'll only find what was left.</p><p></p><p>This book is the residue of a person dismantled by his own honesty.</p><p>It's what survived long enough to be written down.</p><p>And if you see yourself anywhere in it then you already know why I had to write it.</p><p></p><p>This is not a memoir.</p><p>This is me.</p><p>What's left of me.</p><p>What refuses to die quietly.</p><p></p><p><strong>I am N. Vire.</strong></p><p><strong>And this is what remains.</strong></p>