The final blow was neither a gesture, nor a wound, nor even a memory.
It was the voice.
That fucking voice.The one that never stopped.The one that always came back.The one that had never really disappeared — only waited, crouched in the folds of my breath, ready to slip in at my weakest, most exposed, most disarmed moment.
— You see?...
A breath. Nothing more.Not a scream. Not an accusation. Not even a complete sentence.
Just a whisper, a tiny exhalation, slipped between two heartbeats, as if it knew precisely the space to insert itself, where even pain hesitates to speak.An almost affectionate softness. Almost tender.
— You can still feel.
And then, suddenly, everything tensed.
I clenched my teeth.A dry, brutal reflex, as if the strength of my jaws could crush that whisper, as if rage could serve as a bulwark against the obvious.
