I still haven't looked at him. Not out of rejection. Out of fear of what my eyes might shape. Because here, to see… gives flesh. And I don't want to be the one who names him.
And yet, I know. I shouldn't. Nothing allows me to. He has neither name, nor form, nor voice. He has never touched me. He has never revealed himself. He has made no sound. And yet… I know.
It isn't knowledge. It's deeper. Darker. Older. A recognition without image, an organic vertigo, lodged somewhere between the liver and the nape, in that soft zone where the body senses falls before understanding why it collapses. A familiar tension, but without cause, like those shivers one can only assign afterward, a parasitic sensation that precedes every gesture without ever showing itself.
It's a memory without event. A story never told, but inscribed. A weight without narration. A beat without origin. An echo without initial cry. And yet, I carry it. It has been there since before I was even myself.
