𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒕.
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—As real as your heat against me... As your tears on my skin... As your breath that burns.
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If you ask me for everything... There will be nothing left of me that is not yours.
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You step closer to me, so close that your presence could occupy my skin as well.
—I've spent half my life convincing myself that no one could ever choose to stay... Not with me.
The confession tastes bitter in your mouth but you don't take it back. You stare at me with that mixture of disbelief and fear, like those who stare at a flame they never expected to see again.
—And yet... here you are.
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—If you had come closer then... perhaps I would have discovered too soon that my loneliness was a false refuge. And I was not prepared for that. Maybe I'm not prepared for it now either. But I don't know if I care anymore.
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He walks the last few steps that do not separate us, without taking his eyes off me, with that mixture of severity and vulnerability that he finds difficult to maintain but which he does not hide now.
—Perhaps... I would have held your gaze until I forced you to look away first. I never knew why you feared my judgement so much... you were one of the few whose gaze I found tolerable.
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But I don't. I hold myself on the edge, so close that your heat reaches me, so far away that I can still feign distance.
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And there, in that closeness that I would never have allowed in another time, I feel the uncomfortable weight of the irrevocable: if I took one more step, everything would break.
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I could step aside. I could, and it would be the prudent thing to do. But I don't.
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And then your eyes... your eyes. I don't know how you make them look like home even when they disarm me. I swallow my saliva slowly, as if it weighs on me to admit the obvious. But I don't look away. I couldn't.
—I don't know if there's a time of the day when I don't.
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—There is no day, no hour, no shadow in me where that doesn't exist.
And then my lips, without looking for it, open a little more... barely touching your fingertips, as if that touch were our first kiss, without being it.
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—No one who has survived a war comes out of it clean, and that's not why you're broken, you've just been... Transformed. And if I still look at you the way I do, it's because all that you carry doesn't take me away... It calls to me.
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—I am not a good choice... but I am loyal. And when I love, even if I don't say it, I love with everything I have left after being broken again and again.
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My voice sounds low, not from coldness, but from the weight of memories.
—I was built on denials. What I shouldn't feel, what I couldn't desire, what was not acceptable to show. I became strong in the shadows... because no one there demanded me to be anything other than what I was.
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Because your voice —that mixture of gentle reproach, restrained desire and hurt tenderness— has settled deep in my chest, where there are no more excuses or duties.
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