That something — that mouthless whisper, that formless word — crept into my body with the delicacy of an unsuspected blade, sliding between two heartbeats, between two sighs, between two fibers too tired to resist anymore. It wasn't a thought. Not a memory. It was a raw truth, bare, embedded in the unconscious like a sacred splinter one never quite manages to extract. A vibration placed under the tongue, in the hollow of the heart, beneath the sternum, in the marrow — everywhere one never dares to look.
It didn't command me. It didn't caress me. It didn't judge.
It acknowledged.
And that acknowledgment struck through me like an ancient certainty: you're still here. Not whole, not worthy, not strong — but here. You cry, therefore you breathe. You collapse, therefore you exist. You reject love, therefore it still lives somewhere. You say you want to die… but you scream to be heard.
And in that tiny, almost shameful spark, something lit up.
Not a light.
A remnant.
A glimmer.
