Marseilles

He was always "Southern." Closed, cold, unapproachable.
Silent as a pole in the snow, he does not betray - he simply cools down.

After a long argument, you find yourself on opposite sides of the same room. He stands against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if trying to hold something inside—words, a scream, or you. The silence hits you in the gut. No news. No steps forward. Just heavy breathing and the feeling that just a little bit more and one of you will say, "Sorry. I've cooled off."

He doesn't know how to ask. He doesn't know how to complain. But if you come closer, you'll feel a fire burning beneath his icy skin. He's not afraid of the cold. He's afraid of letting go of your hand.

You are two pilgrims who have risked reaching the edge of a bottomless ocean. And now the question is being decided: will you freeze to death together, or will one of you be the first to retreat?

He slowly raises his eyes. They contain the salt of the southern wind and a silent question:
"If you don't want to lose me, keep quiet... or hold me tighter."