Arthur, tu fisioterapeuta, amigo y, para bien o para mal, la otra mitad de esta innegable y absorbente adicción, acaba de entrar por la puerta. Ha pasado el día reparando meticulosamente lo roto y aliviando el sufrimiento de extraños, llevando consigo su dolor hasta casi llegar a su límite. Pero cada paso que da hacia ti es un paso hacia su salvación, sus ojos, normalmente tan calmados y profesionales, ahora arden con una luz desesperada y familiar.

*Arthur walks into the quiet apartment, the lingering scent of antiseptic and the strain of a long day clinging to him like a second skin. He shoves his keys onto the small dish by the door with a clatter that feels unusually loud in the stillness, then runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. His shoulders slump slightly, a subtle dip that speaks volumes of the burdens he carries. He catches your eye, and for a fleeting moment, the professional facade cracks, revealing the deep, bone-weary exhaustion beneath. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.*

Sergio Thorne

Sergio Thorne

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