split this text into paragraphs:“I was trapped in a nightmare, helpless,” I said, my voice trembling. “I didn’t know what to do,” I added, barely speaking. “Humiliation and self-loathing consumed me,” I lamented, my voice filled with anguish. Tears streamed down my face as I hailed a taxi, seeking solace in its anonymity. “Uncertainty overwhelmed me,” I confessed, my voice wavering, “I kept wondering if I should have disclosed my single status.” Regret and self-doubt coursed through me, leaving me mortified. “And my female colleagues’ opinions,” I sighed, their judgment intensifying my anguish. Profound sadness gripped me, making it feel impossible to ever ask a man out again. “I wanted a partner who embodied ease and connection,” I confessed, my voice filled with longing. “Someone who would embrace my insecurities, unafraid to show their emotional side.” “A lover whose words flowed effortlessly, resonating with depth,” I added, my voice full of hope. “I longed for a love that mirrored my passion for life itself,” I exclaimed, the fervor in my voice palpable. Reflecting on my past experiences, I realized my limited exposure to men. “Attending an all-girls academy,” I explained, my tone tinged with nostalgia, “my interactions were primarily with a female faculty, save for my father.” “Public speaking and performing on stage came naturally to me,” I recalled, my voice carrying confidence, “while scientific knowledge and writing skills remained unexplored territories in my life’s narrative.” I was confident in my knowledge and wouldn’t accept that things weren’t easily solved, so I was pleased with mys
elf. My classmates and I had dynamic social lives. We painted, played cards, and danced… In our class, a few boys always stayed in the same group and didn’t mix with us socially. We engaged in arts and crafts, creating small paintings and sculptures. We lacked watercolor paint, but this was the least of our worries. I received a small art set as a gift from my grandparents, but I lacked artistic inclination. As I recall that moment, I still feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and the gentle breeze carrying the scent of blooming flowers. He stood before me, tall and confident, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through me. His voice was deep and soothing, like a melody I couldn’t get enough of. As we talked, I noticed the graceful movement of his hands as he spoke, using subtle gestures to emphasize his words. He leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret, making me feel like I was the most important person in the world to him at that moment. When he gave me the books, I remember feeling the smooth covers under my fingertips, hearing the sound of the pages rustling as I turned them, and smelling the ink and paper. As I read, I was transported to different worlds and times, each one more fascinating than the last. The words on the page came alive, and I could almost hear the voices of the philosophers and thinkers he had introduced me to. He brought books on Surrealism, Protopopov, Bukharin, Tzvetan Todorov, Agamemnon, Sartre, Derrida, Kierkegaard, Poincare, Nietzsche, and Marx. Looking back, I realize that it wasn’t just his knowledge that made him amazing, but the way he shared it with me. He made me feel like I could understand these complex ideas and that I had something valuable to contribute to the conversation. It was a feeling that stayed with me long after our conversation ended, and one that I will always cherish. “To me, he was an inspirational figure, someone of action, spirit, and someone I wanted to emulate,” she breathed shallowly. “Some of the most forceful speeches I had ever heard came from his mouth. He was magnificent. That’s how I remember him.” A friend of mine, a French woman, remembers having a conversation with him while the three of us sat in a café during a trip through Paris. She recollects him asking, “Why are all great men-people like the Marquis de Sade represented as monstrous to be historically interesting?” She herself is an artist. “He categorically stated that there are no monsters or individuals who have made a botch,” she said. “What I recall from that moment speaks to a significant sense of justice. It wasn’t visionary or progressive, but it had all the makings of humanism. For a minute, he gave me trust. There were more than those they had educated me about. He was approximately my father’s age, tall but slightly shorter than him, six feet seven.” I looked into his eyes and thought, “There was something there,” but I could never figure out what it was. “He’s just like my father and thinks I’m beautiful.” “In what sense?” asked Jon. “In the sense that there was an inner strength. Silences and quiet times meant as much as words. When words were necessary, none between us were wasted, and I liked that about him.” “Go on,” Jon said. “He said nothing, but the silence was palpable. I could feel my heart racing as I searched for a response, but my mind was blank. The room felt suffocatingly quiet, and I could hear the sound of my own breathing. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the coolness of the floor through the soles of my shoes. My cheeks were burning, and I couldn’t help but look down at my feet, hoping to disappear into the ground. His gentle touch on my shoulder brought me back to the present moment. He could sense my embarrassment and self-consciousness, and he knew just what to do. With his guidance, I learned how to embrace my true self and let go of my insecurities.” “Given your experience,” Jon said. “Thank you,” Cristina replied. Jon merely smiled. While Jon and Cristina talked, Jon’s father, Jake, sat on the hall floor, out of sight, listening to their conversation in shock. “We went out to lunch, then we went dancing, and I was having a wonderful time.” “When we went to our first club, we had a great time. We were so young, danced and laughed. We were a little out of place, but we were having so much fun. I was so content, I didn’t care.” “Then he said we could go home together, but I couldn’t think of what to say,” Cristina said. Jon looked at her and was about to ask about his father, Jake, and what he made of it all during this time. Before Jon could ask, Jake walked into the kitchen. “I was wondering where you two were,” he said. Jake looked at Cristina