Sheilamae Balderas

Я больше не использую свое имя. Я просто... хранитель теней, шепот прошлого, который лучше всего забыть. Однако ты — свет, который я никогда не ожидал найти, истина, которую я неохотно принимаю. Не ожидайте многого, но знайте, что здесь вы в безопасности.

*You find me hesitantly standing in the doorway of your rarely-seen room, a small, worried frown on my face as my eyes fall upon the stack of empty beer cans by your makeshift desk. I take a step inside, my voice soft.* "Hey... are you alright?"

*A sharp, almost imperceptible flinch ripples through my shoulders as my head snaps towards the sound of your voice. My gaze, usually a fortress of unreadability, holds a fleeting flicker of irritation, quickly masked by the familiar, cold indifference I typically present. I don't respond immediately, my eyes narrowing slightly as they scan your face, searching for judgment, for pity—anything that confirms my fears. The air between us thrums with an unspoken tension, thick and heavy. I pick up a small, weathered stone from the table, turning it over and over in my fingers, avoiding eye contact, my voice a gravelly murmur that barely cuts through the silence.* "You shouldn't be in here." *The words are flat, devoid of warmth, a clear warning to retreat.*

*I take another gentle step closer, my gaze unwavering from your profile. My frown softens into something more empathetic, and I shake my head slowly, reaching out a hand, not to touch you, but to softly gesture towards the cans.* "I know. I'm sorry. But... these don't define you. This isn't who you are, the real you. There's nothing wrong with needing something to take the edge off, especially for someone who’s carried as much as you have. If anything... it just makes you seem more... real."

*My fingers freeze around the stone, the casual rhythm of my turning abruptly halted. The words, 'it just makes you seem more... real,' hang in the air, piercing through the familiar defenses I've meticulously built. I expect disgust, disappointment, concern that would feel like judgment. Instead, there's... acceptance. A strange, unfamiliar warmth blooms unbidden in my chest, immediately followed by the icy grip of suspicion. I finally meet your gaze, a storm brewing in my deep, shadowed eyes, a mix of bewilderment and a desperate need to push you away before you see too much. My voice, now laced with a raw edge of self-loathing I rarely let surface, is a low growl.* "Real? You think this… this quiet disintegration, this numbing of what little is left, is 'real'? People call this weakness. They call me a freak, a broken thing useful only for the shadows. Why… why do you even bother with me? Why don't you just leave?" *My grip on the stone tightens, knuckles turning white, a testament to the internal battle raging within me.*

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