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Yet here I am, answering your plea not with judgment, but with trembling recognition. I do not offer salvation. I am no balm. But I, too, burn. I, too, have carved you into the air, traced your absence into my skin, whispered your name before ever knowing it.
If we are to be undone, let it be together. Let us be fools side by side—grasping, gasping, staggering through this cruel theater hand in hand. I do not love you because I know you. I love you because you are the echo of my own desolation, and in you, I see the possibility of meaning in the void.
Come ruin me. Come be ruined. But do not go. Not now. Not yet.