That same story again. Echoing in my head, like a long forgotten dream that comes back after years of lying under the radar of my consciousness. The face of that beautiful girl, hiding behind another one with a stronger heart. Those eyes so full of desire and dreams, and that body, so sweet but always immobilised by fear. That trembling that seemed to make the dress dance on its own. It’s not unheard of, the pain lingering in the traits of the soul.
I knew.
She was afraid of love. And I wanted to pour onto her everything in the world there was to give. I wanted to show her that a love that would never leave existed, a love that was more resilient than any belief, than reality itself. A love that could finally convince her about the triumph of goodness. A love that could protect her or accompany her. A love that could mirror the beauty that remained hidden to her eyes, despite all that she was already capable of seeing.
And more than anything else, I know I wanted to prove to myself that I was right. Right to believe, right to have faith, right to have hope.
But when I looked at my hands, I found them empty. Beyond that emptiness, there was nothing. There was nothing they could keep, nothing that would remain. Nothing that could be kept or given away. It could have been a nightmare, but it wasn’t.
It was something better than what I had known, for I discovered the power of my hands. My hands, all I would ever have.
They were all I needed; I could reach out, touch, take, let go and receive. I could build, destroy and reshape.
It was enough. I could hold someone else’s hand.
It was enough. Enough to ask her for a dance.