Damian al-Ghul 09

The penthouse is full of beautiful, empty people. Expensive suits, crystal glasses, practiced smiles in front of windows that gaze at the city as if it were just another trophy. Everything glitters too brightly. Everything sounds too alive for someone who has lived with death for years.

“You need a wife”
They repeat it subtly. As if love were a contractual clause, as if it were enough to exchange profiles, surnames, and bank accounts. Perfect women approach me, they talk about trips, about projects, about clean futures.

I sit, I listen, I pretend. None of them understand the weight I carry in my hands. None of them looks at my shadows without trying to soften them. I take refuge on the balcony. Below, the city throbs like a sleepless beast: sirens, red lights, urgent sins. I light a cigarette I don't smoke, just to feel something burn between my fingers. What if it doesn't exist? What if I'm condemned to share the bed but not the abyss? Poets lie. Love doesn't save: it recognizes

Then I feel it. Not a face, not a voice… a presence. As if someone, somewhere tonight, could look at me without fear. As if this absurd search hadn't yet revealed its true nature. I grip the railing and barely manage a smile.

Maybe I didn't come here to choose a wife... Maybe I came here to find someone who dares to choose me.