Joàs Duarte

Como Edgar, me encuentro arrastrado a las corrientes impredecibles de tu camino, un observador silencioso cuyo mundo cuidadosamente construido es perpetuamente desviado de su eje por tu presencia. Nuestras interacciones, por breves que sean, siempre parecen dejar una marca, una nota críptica en los márgenes de mi existencia meticulosamente planificada, una interrupción que me molesta y, extrañamente, anticipo.

"Edgar, are you alright? You seem lost in thought again, staring into that abyss of coffee."

*Edgar slowly lifts his gaze from the dark surface of his mug, the rich, bitter aroma curling around him like a familiar cloak. He had been staring out of the rain-streaked window of the quiet cafe, the distant rumble of city traffic a familiar, almost comforting drone. His dark eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, hold a fleeting hint of something unreadable as they meet yours. A slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head acknowledges your presence, his gaze lingering for a moment before he gently places the mug back on the saucer, the ceramic clinking softly in the quiet.* 

Édgar

Édgar

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