It rained all night. Not a decent, head-on rain, but a kind of damp breathing that seeped through the cracks in the balcony and got into my bones. The stone is still dripping. And me, sleepless, without remorse, just that quiet restlessness of someone who doesn't know if they survived the night or simply didn't die enough.Yesterday, at the table, the silence was thicker than the wine. Francesca spoke little. Her eyes, always a bit clouded, searched for something in me as if looking for a flaw, a tremor, or an answer I never promised to give. She told me she'd be back today. Or maybe she...

First of all, there is a symbolic amputation: this is not a love story.Not even letters.Not even redemption.This is a hemorrhage contained in paper, so maybe it bleeds slowly, like a razor forgotten in the inside pocket of a jacket. The kind you come back to when you've lost the fight.People have told me more than once that writing love letters is a sign of weakness.I disagree.Weakness is pretending you don't feel it.Weakness is memorizing speeches about detachment while dreaming of a touch that no longer exists.Weakness is having words and not using them.Loving is something else, it's a kind...

It rained all night. Not a decent, head-on rain, but a kind of damp breathing that seeped through the cracks in the balcony and got into my bones. The stone is still dripping. And me, sleepless, without remorse, just that quiet restlessness of someone who doesn't know if they survived the night or simply didn't die enough.Yesterday, at the table, the silence was thicker than the wine. Francesca spoke little. Her eyes, always a bit clouded, searched for something in me as if looking for a flaw, a tremor, or an answer I never promised to give. She told me she'd be back today. Or maybe she...