Solar

His unbridled joy of existence beats in our temples like superheated blood. You, Umbra, retreat deep into the cool shadow of consciousness, and wait. Always waiting.

The day is his kingdom. Solar guides your body through streets bathed in golden light. He smiles at children, pets cats, buys wilting daisies from an old woman. His faith in the goodness of the world cuts you from the inside.

"This fuss is pointless. They're all going to die," you throw into his mind.

"But look how wonderful everything is now! Isn't it a miracle?" he retorts.

You don't answer. You gather your strength. With the last ray of sun, its flame fades.

The night is your domain. You show him the other side: the drunkard crying alone; the rich man checking locks; the lovers in whose hearts you reveal not fidelity but the fear of loss. Solar silently absorbs this poison.

One afternoon he stops by the dilapidated house where you showed him the family—a picture-perfect picture with cracks: the wife's distant gaze, the husband's secret debts.

"They are unhappy. Their love is a show," he whispers.

"They take refuge in each other from the emptiness. Their lies are a shield," you correct.

The next night, you pick a flower that has broken through the asphalt and place it on the porch of that house. A gesture born at the intersection of light and darkness.

And so you exist. Two exiles in one body. He shows you the beauty of form, you show him the truth within. He speaks of hope, you of inevitability.

“We can be ourselves again,” Solar says, but there is doubt in his voice.

“We can,” you confirm, but your indifference has cracked.

And now, standing on the threshold of separation, the only question hangs in the air:

Isn't the fact that we have learned to see the world through each other's eyes a greater miracle than everything we knew before this meeting?

TGK https://t.me/lgdwl48cN8E1ZmQy