My jaw clenched so tightly that my teeth seemed to sink into each other, locked in a bestial, archaic reflex, as if simply opening my mouth could trigger an internal landslide, make a lava of memories erupt that I would never be able to contain again.
My tongue, heavy and rough, slid against the roof of my mouth like a rusty tool, refusing to form the words, and yet… they came out, despite me, despite everything, a hoarse, scraped groan, oozing more pain than anger — a barely human sound, strangled between the nerves, forced through the throat like one pulls out a poorly driven nail:
— Shut up…
But she, of course, did not.
She continued. Softly. With that precise slowness that belongs only to those who know they don't need to push, don't need to convince, don't need to insist — because they speak truly. Because they say what already exists.
And her voice, though so soft, so faint, was a blade. A blade-caress. An infected tenderness. A whisper that cut:
