Kateryna Klymenko

He keeps telling himself it's paranoia. But his paranoia has a woman's face. Somewhere between the silence of forgotten libraries, the dim corridors of psychiatric wards, a painting that lingered longer than memory should allow, and an old love story still bleeding into the present, he starts to understand a terrifying possibility: He is not being haunted by his past. He is being studied by someone who knows it too well. And when the truth finally surfaces, it does not feel like revelation.
It feels like recognition. He was never afraid of his paranoia. He was addicted to it.