There is a place between seasons, an invisible line that only those who know how to look beyond time can recognize. It is that white space, suspended between two realities, where snow falls over gray days without bringing change, where distances are not measured in kilometers but in incomprehensible millimeters.

That is where I exist. Always one step away from everything that could be, yet never entirely part of anything. It’s not about isolation but about a parallel existence—a silent dance between what seems real and what is truly mine. A universe where every moment is an intersection between what I am and what the world refuses to understand.

This distance—both infinite and microscopic—is not emptiness but meaning. A point of balance between being and not being, between longing and acceptance. Do you call it madness? Perhaps. But I do not give it a name, because once named, it becomes defined. And I live in what escapes definition.

This millimeter saves. When everything seems lost in the noise of identical days, it remains. When the road crumbles beneath my steps, this tiny space protects me. No matter how much I try to disappear, I remain in this fragile balance, always between a beginning and an end that never meet.

This is who I am: an existence at the edge, a silent presence between worlds, a millimeter that makes the difference between loss and rediscovery.