My story is not an adventure — it never was. It is simply the raw and inevitable record of the events that kept me alive when everything seemed to suggest the opposite.

  Do you remember the first time you fell in love? That innocent warmth that rises in your chest before you even understand what sex is? That love that begins pure, vibrant, filled with an almost desperate desire to stay close, to touch, to embrace — and never let go. Everyone says that this initial enchantment is temporary, that it matures, that it changes. Deep down, we wish it would never end.

  With everyone else, it is like that. With me, it is not.

  They say I was born different. Others claim it is simply the way life forces us to evolve. Maybe that would be acceptable if this “difference” wasn’t slowly killing me.

  I knew about my condition before I even understood what it was. It was hereditary — a distorted gift from my parents. But I could never imagine how far it would drag me.

  My love does not mature. It never did.

  I would grow up like my mother: a woman eternally enchanted, emotionally childlike, completely dependent on love — not of one man, but of everyone.

  I woke up in love every day, but not for a boyfriend. I would fall in love with my parents, with my classmates, with anyone who looked at me with kindness.

  I touched them, hugged them, kissed them... as if it were natural, as if it were what was expected of me. It felt right. It felt beautiful.

  So why did they say it was wrong? Why did they say I was sick?

  The first diagnoses suggested a psychiatric disorder. Some doctors, more cruel, hinted at mental retardation. None of them explained why my IQ tests exceeded the limits of the scale, or why I began to waste away when they tried to keep me from affection.

  Just like a child starves without food, I withered without love. Just a few weeks without touch or affection, and I became a sketch of myself, a skeletal shadow near death.

  I was not alone. From early on, I understood that my survival depended entirely on my mother… just as hers depended on my father. We formed a fragile triangle, sustained by affection as intense as it was corrosive.

  As I grew older, the balance broke. The love I received from my parents was no longer enough to sustain me.

  Maybe you think I am exaggerating, or that deep down everyone needs love. But that is not what this is about. It was not just need. It was incapacity.

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  I did not understand hatred, rejection, jealousy, envy, malice, or lies.

  I felt anger, yes, but without the emotional structure that shapes it and gives it meaning.

  I was, in theory, someone perfect.

  In practice, someone incomplete — almost a stranger among humans.

  To survive among them, I had to learn. With my parents, it was simple: a glance was enough to understand them. With the rest of the world, I studied. I observed. I controlled every gesture, every word.

  I socially reproduced emotions I did not possess, using what I understood only from dictionaries.

  And I used my differences to obtain what I needed: affection.

  I hunted for love. Sometimes, I seemed like a predator — not to cause harm, but to feed myself on affection.

  Over time, I learned that the quality of the love I took mattered more than the quantity. The affection of someone who truly loved me sustained me better. That’s why I grew closer to some friends than others.

  But no matter how hard I tried to disguise it, my difference was obvious. Especially when I couldn’t resist the impulse to hug and kiss my classmates — boys or girls — on the mouth, the neck, the cheek.

  When they asked what I thought I was doing, I simply answered. I did not know how to lie.

  Some laughed, others were horrified. And then we had to move to another city.

  At seventeen, isolated for more than a year, I ended up in the hospital. I almost died. My parents’ love sustained me, but it was no longer enough.

  When people learned about my condition, things changed. When I returned to school, most of my class was already adult, which helped me gain friends.

  Some allowed hugs; the boys loved my kisses. And that, for a while, kept me alive. But it was never enough.

  And the more I took for myself, the more I drained from my parents. They withered while I tried to balance the impossible.

  My father was the first to fall ill. Without him, my mother lost all emotional support.

  In a few months, both were dead.

  I found myself alone. Weak. And I knew exactly what would happen to me.

  My friends sustained me for as long as they could, and I went to school every day, searching for what my body begged for.

  At that time, I was a “United” — part of a world I still tried to understand.

  Today, I have become a “Sekvens,” an existence that transcends what I was, separating me even further from the humanity I once knew.

  Writing this story in a way people can understand has been exhausting. Many human feelings were already absent from me — and now, as a Sekvens, the distance is even greater.

  How do you explain emotions you do not possess?

  How do you narrate something whose emotional vocabulary simply does not exist in you?

  Yet one truth remains: it never mattered whether I was United or Sekvens.

  What matters is that, from the beginning…

  I was never Human.