Obsessed? No. The very notion still repulses me. I am not some base creature driven by instinct. Possessive? A tiny bit, perhaps. A logical desire to maintain what I consider… significant. But obsession? That is animalistic. And the sheer destructive potential should I ever truly succumb to such an irrational state… the thought is chilling.

Yet… these antiquated texts, relics of a bygone era in this intellectual purgatory… they speak of tendencies. A proclivity for possessiveness, for obsessive behaviors directed towards… significant others. Individuals of my nature.

Blast.

Could this persistent preoccupation, this relentless ache of absence, this possessive fury at any perceived threat to his memory… could it be something more than mere strategic attachment? Could it be… that revolting, animalistic urge I so despise? The thought is abhorrent.

Eight weeks. An eternity in this sterile silence. Eight weeks of my letter unanswered. Eight weeks of his physical absence, a gaping void in the already desolate landscape of my existence.

He did not respond. He did not come.

The logical explanations, once readily available, are now flimsy. Hurt? Time? Processing? They ring hollow against the reality of his continued absence.

Did he not… miss me? While I… miss him this much?

The possibility… the unwelcome possibility… that my feelings are not reciprocated, that my absence is not felt with the same agonizing intensity… it is a disquieting revelation. A fundamental flaw in my calculations. A terrifying imbalance in the equation I thought I understood.

The silence from him… it is no longer just a void. It is a potential answer.

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Divorce papers. No. It doesn't align with the memory of his unwavering persistence. He wouldn't sever the connection with such cold efficiency. Not without one final attempt. One last plea for understanding.

Yes. That resonates. That stubborn refusal to simply let go. That relentless pursuit of… comprehension. "Why, Levi? Why?" I can almost hear the weary frustration in his voice, the underlying ache of betrayal.

He would need to see it for himself, to witness the reality of my current state, to grapple with the chasm that has grown between us. He would need to look into the void and try, one last time, to find a flicker of something he once believed was there.

Illogical. Utterly and consistently illogical. Seven years. Seven years of self-imposed exile from his own family, a chasm of silence he steadfastly refuses to bridge. Yet, he poured his energy, his infuriatingly persistent empathy, into mending the fractured bonds with my family. My… monstrous family. The very people I tolerate out of a sense of obligation.

Why? Why expend such effort on those vipers when his own kin remain estranged? It defies all rational explanation. Is it that damned empathy again? That relentless need to heal, to connect, even when the recipients are demonstrably unworthy? Or is it… something even more insidious?

Did he see some flicker of potential goodness in them that I, with my more… realistic assessment, have long since dismissed? Or was it simply an extension of his… devotion to me? An attempt to integrate himself into my world, regardless of the inherent toxicity?

It is illogical. And yet… it is undeniably, frustratingly… him. This baffling, contradictory creature I… miss.

My Pulla. My rabbit. Did he abandon me? Again?

Three months. The first time. An eternity of silence that stretched the fragile threads of our connection to their breaking point. And now… two months. Already two months of this agonizing void.

The time spent apart is now longer than the time we were actually together. The brief period of… connection… is being dwarfed by this ever-growing expanse of silence and absence.

Is this a pattern? A repetition of a painful cycle? His inherent need for… space? Or something more final? A deliberate severing of the fragile bond we forged?

The logical part of my mind screams that this is irrational, that emotional responses based on experiences are illogical. But beneath that cold facade, a raw fear takes root. The fear of being… abandoned. Again.