Anthesis of Sadness

The silhouette didn’t move — not even a shiver, not even a stray breath that might have betrayed a doubt, a shiver, a remnant of humanity; it stayed there, frozen in that muffled, tense, stifled waiting, similar to the one shared by all without ever saying it, as if every being present, despite the diversity of its forms, its fears, its wounds, carried deep inside the same suspended vertigo, the same silent question written somewhere in the flesh: when would it begin — or end; and she too, among them, she waited, standing, frozen, stuck in that collective stillness which was not peace, not a truce, but a common breath held just before the rupture.

Then... it returned.

The voice.

That damn voice.

But this time, it carried no anger, no provocation, no irony — just that terrifying calm, that cutting poise that, beneath its apparent softness, had always known how to aim exactly where I refused to look.

— She never stopped waiting for you.

The words fell like a blade’s edge laid flat against the skin. And despite myself, I stepped back, not out of fear, not out of weakness, but as if something in me had just been touched too close to the nerve.

— It’s just an illusion, I whispered — no, not whispered... I spat. Like a rejection. Like a defense reflex with no more weapons.

But the voice, it didn’t stir. It remained there, suspended, soft and relentless.

— You say that about everything that moves you... — a pause, barely a breath, then — You say that about everything that touches you.

And then my throat tightened, this time. It wasn’t a threat. Not an accusation. Just a truth laid there, slowly, without anger, without intent to hurt, but which hurt anyway. Because it was true. Because it touched where it still rotted.