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There was something
that begged to be let go,
but it didn't scream.
It only weighed.
Like an old garment
that one keeps wearing
because the cold is frightening,
even if it comes from the heat itself.

The days were echoes.
Nothing hurt at all,
but everything scraped.
An edge in every gesture.
A soft rigidity
that can't be seen
but is inhabited.

Inside,
a nameless tremor.
Of anguish,
and of unborn possibility.

Because we knew.
We knew the mold was narrow,
that the air was growing dense,
that the silence was no longer rest
but confinement.

But even so,
the leap seemed like an abyss.
The rope that holds
was also the one that tightens.
And fear spoke
in a familiar language:
better not to move.
better not to touch the crack.

Until one day
and no one knows why that day
the body grew tired
of itself.

And without warning,
like a ripe fruit splitting open,
something gave way.

Onvio There was no applause.
There was no light.
But there was a space.
Open.
Naked.
Silent.

It's that moment when
fear became air.
The knot, water.
The wall, a path.

The step was heroic.
It was inevitable.
As if not doing it
were already impossible.

Then came the relief. Like a party,
like new skin.

A way of breathing
we didn't know.
A face in the mirror
that, finally,
didn't seem like a disguise.

Change
is not a rupture,
it's something else, freedom.
It's not fire,
it's opening the window.

What was left behind still trembles,
one knows
that what awaits ahead
has always been waiting.


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