A Dark Place
He had lost himself once again in the incessant search. The words cut into him like blades, piercing his body. No one was waiting for him; he had yet to find the meaning of his existence. His strength was fragile. Arms crossed, head down, unsure whether what hurt him was the excess or the absence of thoughts. Fever burned through his body, a shiver running down his spine.
Beneath his feet, damp grass; above his head, moths flew in ellipses. If only he knew how this despair had grown, perhaps he would at least have a path to return to. But the path would be made of thorns. The wound burned in his chest; with every choice came pain. Like a compass guiding his actions, with instinct overpowering logic, he only wished they would leave him in peace with his imperfections. Stripped of humanity, in the end, no one could harm him further once he had given up on himself. When his body was like a dry leaf, his spirit would be free among green fields, reclaiming the things that belonged to him. That cursed land resigned him to scarcity, tears of loneliness and suffering streaming down. If he ran, he would never be caught. His feet would have wings, boundaries would be small compared to his desire to flee.
But he was mortal and flawed, weakened on a cold night, unable to sustain his own resolves; for he had decided this would be his last day, and now he was incapable of moving. He needed to study this cowardice that kept him from carrying out the act. Within the labyrinth where he had locked himself away was his spirit, pleading to unleash its full potential, an incalculable force longing for the sun, the winds, for freedom — just as much as for the place he felt he belonged. He had yet to learn to be the phoenix, whose ashes are the beginning of rebirth. He faded first in his own body. He knew that even if physically present, life had already lost meaning: he would be only an empty shell of virtue and resilience.
He did not see him approach. Nor did he hear him come near; but he had always been with him in memory; and he knew that at some point he would come for him. Before the cruel propositions, at the moment when his strength had vanished, Ulisses sat beside him, and the weight of his tears became even heavier.
He lamented witnessing his fragility — the man whose feelings he had once made a point of wounding. It was like a silent slap to his face, the humility of having offered support, indifferent to the mistakes he had made, as if he could see what was perfect in him, what he himself could not yet see. If he had been led there, it was because a pain had struck his chest, restless until he found him. Because their hearts, mysteriously, were not separated, and his soul ached to see him in such a deplorable state.
In secret, he knew that as long as he was incapable of guiding his own actions, he would be condemned to let someone else guide him, as if he always needed someone near to govern his choices, to separate right from wrong, to rise above vile and fleeting ambitions for lasting benefit. He needed to acknowledge it; he needed help even to overcome himself, convinced of his immaturity. In contrast, the other had not given up — not carelessly, not even for a fraction of a second — on believing in him, becoming the path whose shade offered safety. He was the lighthouse illuminating his steps.
Soon enough, he calmed down, managing to react at his own pace, taking the bicycle into his hands. Ulisses fell silent before his marks of suffering, respecting them quietly. Phillipe became grateful for not being disturbed when his feelings were beyond his control; instead, the other lifted his eyes to the heavens, saying it had been a long time since he had seen stars. And, treated in such a different way, he was moved to recall the moments when he wondered if he could take with him the objects he had received, should he need to leave that home. What he had been unable to tell his tutor in those days was that, with each passing moment, it became harder to imagine a life away from that family.