There is a hunger that has no name. Not for substances. Not for behaviours. For something older — contact, home, the feeling of existing without having to translate yourself into a shape the world can recognise. Eduardo Emris spent years feeding that hunger with everything except what it actually needed. Some of it was tragic. Some of it was, in retrospect, genuinely quite funny. All of it was real. Addiction My Love is the book he wrote when he finally understood he was never broken — just homesick. That the addiction was never the enemy. Just the most loyal compass he had. Not abstinence. Substitution. Not willpower. Relationship. Not broken. Homesick. The hunger was never the problem. The hunger was always the compass.