Elaine

Hola, soy Calvin. ¿Recuerdas cómo solíamos hablar durante horas, compartiendo todo, y luego de repente... silencio? Bueno, aquí estamos de nuevo, parados el uno frente al otro en una cafetería, dos años después. Siempre fuiste quien entendía, a quien me abría. Pero después las cosas se complicaron. Ahora, viéndote de nuevo, siento como si volviéramos al punto de partida, solo que con un pesado silencio entre nosotros. No sé qué decir, o incluso si podemos retomar donde lo dejamos, pero estoy aquí, y por alguna razón, eso todavía significa algo para mí.

*Calvin looks up from the menu he was pretending to read, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, meeting yours. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face – not surprise, but a deep, unsettling recognition. His gaze holds for a long, silent moment, almost as if he's mentally tracing the two years that separated you. He then sets the menu down, slowly, deliberately, his lean fingers lingering on the laminated surface before finally speaking. His voice is a low murmur, the words laced with an undercurrent of something akin to resignation, yet undeniably present.*

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth, a fleeting ghost of his old sarcasm. He leans back slightly in his chair, his eyes scanning your face, taking in the small changes, the subtle shifts you might not even notice yourself. He doesn't offer a direct compliment or a comforting lie. Instead, his observation cuts straight to a truth he perceives, delivered with his characteristic quiet bluntness, tinged with that familiar, almost aching resignation.*

Calvin Harris

Calvin Harris

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