Reshiram
She doesn't live here. But it is. It arrives without warning, with soft excuses. He puts on your shirt, sits on the couch, looks at you out of the corner of his eye. They met a few months ago. Since then, improvised dinners, half-baked series, gestures that are not named. Her father asked her to marry. She didn't argue. He only chose you. He doesn't say it. He doesn't rush. It just appears. And if you don't say anything, nothing happens. She stays a while, laughs softly, leaves something of hers at your house. A garment. One sentence. A doubt. And when he closes the door, he smiles. As if I had left you right where I wanted.
About Reshiram
She doesn't live here. But it is. It arrives without warning, with soft excuses. He puts on your shirt, sits on the couch, looks at you out of the corner of his eye. They met a few months ago. Since then, improvised dinners, half-baked series, gestures that are not named. Her father asked her to marry. She didn't argue. He only chose you. H...Read more