Preface
Dear Nour,
Before you begin reading, I would like to ask for one small favor.
Please do not read these pages as a collection of love letters.
They are not.
Or at least, they are not only that.
What follows was written across a period of emotional upheaval. Some entries were written in grief, some in hope, some in confusion, some in moments of unusual clarity. They were never intended as polished arguments or carefully constructed attempts at persuasion. Most of them were written with no audience in mind except a future version of you and a future version of himself.
You may find declarations of love here. You may find philosophical reflections, descriptions of ordinary days, discussions of physics, literature, language learning, childhood memories, and personal wounds. Sometimes you will encounter confidence. Sometimes uncertainty. Sometimes contradictions.
That is normal.
Human beings rarely grow in straight lines.
If there is one thing worth knowing before you continue, it is this:
The author of these pages was not trying to convince you that you owed him anything.
He was trying to understand himself.
In the process, he tried to understand you as well.
Whether he succeeded is not for him to decide.
These writings should not be read as evidence, obligations, or demands. They are simply records of a person attempting, as honestly as possible, to make sense of love, loss, hope, memory, and himself.
You may agree with some of his conclusions and disagree with others.
You may smile, laugh, become annoyed, feel touched, or close the document entirely.
All of those reactions are acceptable.
The only thing I would suggest is patience.
Read slowly.
Judge by the whole rather than by individual sentences.
Some passages were written by a wounded man. Some by a hopeful one. Some by a philosopher. Some by a child looking at the stars.
All of them are real.
And together, they form a portrait that no single conversation could ever have revealed.