THE ALGORITHM OF THE FORBIDDEN HEART

Chapitre 11

She collapsed against me, her sobs redoubling, the weight of two months of secrecy finally escaping. I kissed her gently on the top of her head, a gesture of absolute protection and tenderness.

"I'm here," I whispered against her hair, my voice deep and full of an unwavering promise. "I'm here, Carla."

I repeated the words, simple, anchored in the present. I wanted every fiber of her being to register this truth: she was no longer alone, and contact no longer meant terror. I held her, not to take, but to keep. I let her cry until exhaustion, until her body finally accepted that, in this embrace, there was only safety.

The weight of her story and her body against me pinned me to the sofa. Her sobs slowly turned into regular sighs. Finally, Carla fell asleep against my chest. Her sleep was restless, but she was there, vulnerable and safe in my arms.

I didn't sleep all night. I was unable to move, for fear of waking her or breaking the fragile balance that had been established. I monitored every breath, every twitch of her body, watching over her as I had never watched over anything before. I felt the warmth of her body, the slowness of her heartbeat. The night passed in total stillness, my only goal being to maintain this sanctuary.

The dawn finally broke, casting a soft light into the penthouse. I waited for her to wake up before getting up. There was no question of letting her wake up alone or rushing her by leaving.

When the light filtered onto her face, she woke up with a start. Her eyes opened abruptly, and it took her a moment to realize where she was and who she was against.

"Gently," I whispered, without moving. I immediately reassured her. "You are here. You are in your living room. You are safe."

I held her for one more second, then I slipped off the sofa, the cold of the absence suddenly palpable between us. I had to re-establish the survival protocol.

"I'm going to make you breakfast," I announced, my tone becoming firm again but without harshness. It was a necessity.

"No, I'm not hungry, Dona," she immediately refused, the reflex of autonomy taking over.

"You recounted two days of hell and a night of tears. Your body needs fuel." I left her no room to maneuver. I forced her to. "Sit at your table."

I went to her impeccably equipped kitchen and prepared something simple, again, rich in protein. I brought her the plate. She sat down, her face reflecting fatigue and resignation.

I sat across from her, with my coffee. I watched her eat. It wasn't to judge her, but to ensure the system was working. That, despite the horror, life was resuming, bite after bite.

Breakfast was silent, but she ate, under my gaze. As soon as she finished, the urgency to flee me in her own space took over. She spent her day avoiding me in her own apartment. I heard her move discreetly in the other rooms, ensuring there was always a door and a hallway between us. She needed that time to process the revelation of the night.

I went to see her in the afternoon. I found her in a minimalist room she clearly used as a personal office, sitting, her eyes fixed on a screen.

I approached softly, positioning myself in her field of vision, but without invading her immediate space.

"Carla," I began, my voice soft and measured.

She looked up at me, her expression tired but attentive. She was waiting for the order or the lesson.

"Last night, you gave me everything. You shared your worst memory. But now, you're hiding. And I understand why. What I did at the cinema... it was a breach of trust, even though I was crazy with worry."