Librería Samer Atenea
Librería Aciertas (Toledo)
Kálamo Books
Librería Perelló (Valencia)
Librería Elías (Asturias)
Donde los libros
Librería Kolima (Madrid)
Librería Proteo (Málaga)
This isn’t a memoir.It’s not a story.It’s the remains.I didn’t write this book to heal, inspire, or redeem anything. I wrote it because I was collapsing and needed to leave a trace of what that collapse looked like from the inside. These pages aren’t crafted; they’re extracted. Every chapter is a piece of me I tore out while I was still breathing.This is what happens when identity rots in real time. When memory thins. When meaning disintegrates. When silence gets loud enough to bruise the inside of your ribs. I didn’t shape these thoughts to be comforting or coherent. I wrote exactly what it felt like to exist while falling apart.I don’t offer hope. I don’t offer resolution. I don’t offer anything but the truth I lived:that time is a butcher, not a healer,that forgetting becomes a survival instinct,that the self is something you lose long before anyone notices.If you read this looking for a lesson, you won’t find one.If you read it looking for me, you’ll only find what was left.This book is the residue of a person dismantled by his own honesty.It’s what survived long enough to be written down.And if you see yourself anywhere in it, then you already know why I had to write it.This is not a memoir.This is me.What’s left of me.What refuses to die quietly.I am N. Vire.And this is what remains.
