On 4 December 2014, Silva wrote in his diary,
I cannot take this anymore. I feel inadequate when I am not around her. I feel poisoned when I imagine her bonding with somebody else, telling them the same stories she told me, laughing with them in that same obscene way she laughed with me. When she repeats her stories to them, I almost wish she is bored, going over the same details with undeserving people, pondering over characters we pondered over together, matching their curiosity with hers. I wish she feels uninspired to tell her stories after this. Such is my misery. I want her to forget her stories so nobody comes seeking them.
They haven’t earned her stories the way I have. I have worked really hard to be here and it breaks my heart to see that now, other people have the same knowledge of her that I do. They will all know now, the laugh in her eyes, the story behind her wounds, her careless moles I thought only I could touch. They will all know now how she moans when she is about to climax, how she digs her fingers into flesh, body and bone when she is aroused, how the shape of her back looks in maddening darkness.
I cannot tell her all this. Because she keeps her promise. When she is with me, I know she is with me, in body, soul and mind. It’s what happens after, I have no control over that, and maybe it’s good that I don’t. I don’t know if I can feel the same way I do now, if she was mine everyday and day after day. What would we say to each other? How will we have stories if we haven’t lived outside of one another, far away most days and really far away on some days?
I know I must seek other people and their stories if I want to keep her in my life. I am just scared. What if she feels nothing? What if she feels happy when I have sought them?