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There was a time when everything was sharp. The words, the hours, the thoughts that fell from the ceiling like drops of something that didn't want to be named. It didn't hurt all at once, but it hurt in parts, in corners, as if the soul had grown crooked inside a windowless room. And then walking was like pushing the floor, and speaking was like swallowing thick air. The days didn't advance, they dragged themselves along with short nails, and each night was a mirror that didn't want to look at itself. But one doesn't break suddenly. One splinters, cracks inside like a cup that still holds the coffee but can no longer handle the temperature. Then came the attempts. Poorly done, clumsy, like someone repairing with tape a sinking ship. And yet, something held on. Maybe not me, maybe something else. Something deeper than sorrow or rage. Something I only knew how to say: go on. And I went on. Without style. Without certainty. With steps that made no sound because they weighed too much. Until one day— I couldn't say which, nor if it was Tuesday or rain— something gave way. Not the world, but the weight. Not the pain, but the way I carried it. And air entered. As if I'd been breathing in a box and suddenly someone removed the lid. It didn't come with fireworks. There was no music. Only a calm that seemed foreign but recognized me. It wasn't joy. It was something older. Wiser. As if the body were saying: it doesn't hurt the same anymore. And I walked differently. Not faster, but more firmly. The clocks were no longer enemies, only silent witnesses that everything, even fear, passes. The things were still there, but they no longer bit. The shadows didn't go away, but they stopped screaming. And inside me, a small voice, a voice that had been waiting its turn, finally said: you're coming out. And that was it. That was enough. Because sometimes relief isn't a dawn, it's just a crack through which the sun shines. And then you understand. That you don't always win. That not everything is fixed. But you survive. And surviving, when it seemed impossible, is another way of being born.

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