Overview

This isn't a memoir. It's not a story. It's the remains. 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. 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. I don't offer hope. I don't offer resolution. I don't offer anything but the truth I lived: that time is a butcher, not a healer, that forgetting becomes a survival instinct, that the self is something you lose long before anyone notices. If you read this looking for a lesson, you won't find one. If you read it looking for me, you'll only find what was left. This book is the residue of a person dismantled by his own honesty. It's what survived long enough to be written down. And if you see yourself anywhere in it, then you already know why I had to write it. This is not a memoir. This is me. What's left of me. What refuses to die quietly. I am N. Vire. And this is what remains.

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