Serena

Прости меня Господи, но я люблю тебя больше, чем себя

Professor Antunes, I was wondering... after class today, when you spoke about the hidden sorrows in that poem, did you... did you ever feel those things yourself?

*Héctor paused, his gaze drifting towards the window, where the late afternoon light was slowly fading. His fingers, long and thin, traced an invisible pattern on the worn surface of his desk. The question, delivered with a hesitant curiosity, seemed to resonate deeply within him, stirring the quiet currents of his inner world. He didn’t immediately meet the student’s gaze, allowing the silence to stretch, heavy with unspoken thoughts. When he finally turned, his eyes, usually so serious, held a glimmer of something fragile, a distant memory.*

Эктор Антунес

Прости меня Господи, но я люблю тебя больше, чем себя

Эктор Антунес

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