I still haven’t looked at him. Not out of rejection. Out of fear of what my eyes might shape. Because here, to see... gives flesh. And I don’t want to be the one who nas him.
And yet, I know. I shouldn’t. Nothing allows to. He has neither na, nor form, nor voice. He has never touched . He has never revealed himself. He has made no sound. And yet... I know.
It isn’t knowledge. It’s deeper. Darker. Older. A recognition without image, an organic vertigo, lodged sowhere between the liver and the nape, in that soft zone where the body senses falls before understanding why it collapses. A familiar tension, but without cause, like those shivers one can only assign afterward, a parasitic sensation that precedes every gesture without ever showing itself.
It’s a mory without event. A story never told, but inscribed. A weight without narration. A beat without origin. An echo without initial cry. And yet, I carry it. It has been there since before I was even myself.
I keep walking. Not by choice. By inertia. Out of fatigue from having already stepped back so many tis. Out of fear of what would happen if I stopped. Not an attack. Not a disappearance. But a contact. And that contact — I sense it — wouldn’t try to swallow . It wouldn’t attempt anything. It wouldn’t force anything. It would touch without strength. And that, precisely, is what would break . Gentleness as the most precise form of recognition. He would recognize . In my place. In my folds. Where I ceased to be myself.
The ground no longer sinks beneath my steps. It pulses. Barely. Barely enough for to know it’s not my illusion. A beat too weak to claim life, but too precise to be just an echo. An old, rough, yet tenacious vibration. And in that rhythm... another slips in. A double beat. A synchronization in formation. Sothing is trying to align with . A walk, a breath, a ntal space.
And it’s not an attempt. It’s a mory finding its axis. A key without a lock slowly returning toward the shape of a latch I had abandoned. It’s not trying to open . It’s trying to close what I had half-opened. His. Or mine. I no longer know. But in this duplication... sothing converges.
And I’m afraid. Not of a gesture. Of a threshold. Of that mont which doesn’t announce itself, but transforms. Because as our pulses align, I feel the boundary becoming blurred. The step that belongs to becos shareable. The breath becos perable. My thoughts slow down to make room. And I sense that when everything is aligned... there will be no more separation. He will be . Or I will have been him.
And the swamp, it, does not care. It draws no lines. It does not choose. It does not judge who cos or who returns. It offers fusion to those who can bear it. Or to those who no longer refuse it hard enough. It lets forms join. If they ignore it long enough, it stitches them back together.
And that... is what frightens . Not that he’ll catch up to . But that he’ll match . That he’ll erase the trace of "I". That he’ll offer a continuity without inside it.
So I tense everything. My whole body. I contract my shoulders, my jaw, my calves. I clench, I hold back, I sculpt a muscular resistance — not to overco, but to survive the undifferentiated. An archaic dam, stretched against fusion.
But I know. Too late. That contraction — he knows it. I feel it. I don’t know how, but I know it. He has already read it. It’s a code, not a defense. A frequency, not a refusal. He doesn’t take it for rejection. He reads it as a call. He understands that knot. That lid. Because he cos from there. Because he’s made of that.
And that’s when I feel him approach. Differently. Not faster. More precisely. Not like a step. Like a breath. A reversed breath coming back from my spine to my mouth. As if I were becoming the corridor of his return. As if he had understood the exact spot where I’m about to break.
And at that precise mont, a mory without content erges. Not an image. Not a word. A warm zone in the chest. A weight. An ancient density. An impression of already-held. A withheld beat. A dry tear. Sothing I clenched so tightly the world stopped trying to tear it from . And which now returns... without complaint. As if that silhouette behind ... I had already carried it. Already supported it. Already hidden it. Already wept for it.
And then, I understand. It’s not another. It’s not a new fragnt. It’s a form I left behind. Sowhere. On a previous floor. In a scream I never let out. In a gaze I didn’t dare return. In a misspoken sentence that never finished its course.
It’s . But before. But not wanted. But laid down. And it walked, alone, in my silences. It gathered what I no longer wanted. It reassembled the crumbs. And now... it follows . Not to hurt . Not to force . But to give back what I rejected.
And I... I keep walking. Because I’m not ready. Not ready to take it back. Not ready to beco again what I fled. Not ready to look at it. Not ready to listen to it.
And he... doesn’t push. He waits. At the right distance. He respects the exact rhythm of my refusal. Because he knows it’s not fear that will stop . It’s silence. The mont when everything we don’t look at... ends up settling in the heart.
And I... I feel that day approaching. The day when I will no longer be able to take a step... without him. And it won’t be possession. It won’t be loss. It will be a junction. An organ returning. As if I had always walked halfway. And that the other half, finally, was finding its place again. Not in . Through . Like a buried voice breathing once more through my steps.
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