Se connecterMarcusI watch her from the window of my little house, I watch her cross the garden, I watch her walk towards her house, I watch her wear that mask of ice she puts on for the world, for others, for herself, that mask that says she fears nothing, that she feels nothing, that she needs no one, and that hides a woman who is afraid, who is suffering, who needs to be loved, to be protected, to be held, to be told that everything is fine, that everything will be fine, that everything is good, because she is here, because I am here, because we are here, together, at last, after all these years, after all these lies, after all these fears, after all these flights.I join her in the garden, I walk towards her in the snow that has started falling again, in this grey January light, in this silence that envelops us, that isolates us, that shelters us from the world, from its rumors, from its fears, from its judgments, and I stop in front of her, I look at her, I look at her with her eyes that shy
His name is Sébastien, he is thirty-nine years old, he is married, he has two children, he works in a small business in the city, he earns a living, he pays his taxes, he lives his life, he tries to be happy, to forget, not to think about what he did, what he didn't do, what he should have done, and today, he is in my office, he is sitting across from me, his hands are trembling, his eyes are darting away, his voice is cracking, and he tells me, he begs me, he asks me not to do to him what I did to the others, not to destroy him, not to annihilate him, not to take everything he has, everything he built, everything he loves, everything he has left, because he wasn't like the others, because he never did anything, because he never said anything, because he never attempted anything, but it's not his fault, it wasn't him, it wasn't his fault, he didn't do anything, he didn't say anything, he didn't attempt anything, he just watched, just waited, just hoped it would pa
MAYORÉlianorMy phone vibrates, it's Marcus, it's always Marcus, he is the one who is there, who is always there, who waits for me, who hopes, who loves, who does not leave, who does not flee, who does not judge, who does not ask me what I am doing, who does not ask me why I am doing it, who does not ask me if it is right, if it is just, if it is what I truly want, he is just there, present, patient, loving, and I do not answer, I cannot answer, not now, not when I have just destroyed a life, not when I have just done what I have always done, what I have been doing for six years, destroying, annihilating, erasing, everything that hurt me, everything that wounded me, everything that broke me, and which will never give me back what I lost, what I left behind, what I abandoned, that girl I was, the one who still believed that life could be beautiful, that love could be true, that happiness could exist.The hours pass, the news breaks,
Élianor Her name is Valérie Montfort and she was my tormentor for three years, she made my daily life a living hell, she orchestrated the humiliations with surgical precision, she rallied the entire school against me, she laughed every time I came home in tears, she said one day, in front of everyone, in front of the entire high school, that I was "a fat, ugly girl who would end up a cashier in a supermarket if she was lucky, because with a face like that and a body like that, she would never make anything of her life." Today, fifteen years later, she is the deputy mayor of this city, she built her career on lies and compromises, she signed shady deals, she took kickbacks, she sold building permits to unscrupulous developers, she did everything necessary to climb, to rise, to become someone, to forget that she was a girl who had humiliated others to feel like she existed, to feel alive, to feel like she was someone. I am in my office, in front of my scree
I take the playdough. I make a castle, a house, a garden, a family. A family with a daddy, a mommy, children. Children who run, who play, who laugh, who live, who are happy, who are loved. Who are everything one could possibly be best at in the world. And I look at them. Marcus, Léon, Lola. I look at them and I tell myself that this is life. This is what must be protected. This is what matters. This is what gives meaning to all these battles, to all these lies, to all these truths discovered too late. This is what makes you get up in the morning. Fight. Win. Lose. Start over. Hope. Believe. Love. Love enough to stay. To not leave. To not run. To not be afraid. To not doubt. To not hide. To not forget yourself. To not forget everything that matters. Everything that is worth it. Everything that deserves to be fought for, to be stayed for, to be loved for, to be lived for. "It's beautiful," Marcus says, looking at the castle, the house, the gard
I sit down on the floor, next to Marcus. I take the playdough. I make shapes, animals, flowers, things I don't know how to make, that I've never known how to make, that I'm learning with them, with him, with us. And I look at him. I look at him making a castle, a house, a garden, a life. A life he is building with my children. With our children. With our hands, our hearts, our lives. And I feel my heart beating faster, harder, longer. I feel something rising, growing, invading me, choking me, preventing me from breathing, from thinking, from speaking, from doing anything but looking at him, seeing him, feeling him, loving him. Loving him like I've never loved anyone. Loving him like I never believed I could love. Loving him like I never wanted to love. Because it's too much. Too strong. Too big. Too everything, everything, everything. And I'm afraid. Afraid of what will happen if I continue, if I don't run, if I stay, if I say yes. If I finally say what I've never said to
LioraFive years.Five years of watching the slow demise of the printing press, counting unpaid bills, smiling until my jaw ached. The club's air is unchanging: a scent of stale wax, old wood, and muffled despair. I stand straight, hands flat on the back of an armchair
ÉlianorOne month. Thirty days exactly. Martha's house transformed into a cocoon, a space where time was suspended, healed by the sugar of Charles's desserts, the light of movies about stars, and the deliberate choice of my children. The fortress held. My foundations,
ÉlianorThe silence envelops me, but here, it's not the purchased silence of a hotel. It's an hereditary silence. It's woven into the heavy silk drapes, embedded in the dark woodwork, muffled by the Oriental rugs that swallow every footstep. It reigns in this dwelling that isn't a rental, but a ret
ÉlianorWhite.An immaculate, gentle white that wraps around everything. It is the first thing I perceive. An absence of color, of weight, of cold. A diffuse, soothing light.Is this what heaven feels like?I have never truly believed in heaven. Hell, yes I know it well. I have walked through it. B







