THE ALGORITHM OF THE FORBIDDEN HEART

Chapitre 11

"I have to go," she said, her voice becoming slightly firmer, the wall of flight trying to rise again.

But the moment she wanted to move away, to break the proximity the water gave us, I gently blocked her. I maintained the softness of our hand contact. I didn't use force, but supplication.

"Don't run, Mio Angelo." I used the Italian nickname, the call to intimacy, the bond we had forged in chaos. "I'm here. I'm not moving."

I approached very slowly, the distance in the water shrinking. I tilted my head. I kissed her gently.

It was a question, an offer of safety. She responded almost immediately. She kissed me back. Her kiss was timid, but present, a confirmation of her willingness to be there.

I felt her discomfort. She didn't know where to put her hands. The uncertainty of contact, the memory that hands were the instrument of her constraint, was still there.

I took control, not to impose on her, but to teach her a new protocol of contact.

I took her hands and placed them on my body.

I guided one hand to my hip—a stable and safe place—and the other hand to my neck, where a contact could be intimate without being threatening.

She hesitated, then her fingers closed gently on my skin. The water moved around us.

A sigh escaped me, a sigh of pure satisfaction. Oh my God, I love it so much when she touches me. The simple fact that she accepted to place her hands on my body, to take that little control, was the greatest victory. I felt the rage transform into a protective and burning tenderness. She was rewriting the history of her body. And I was there to help her.

"Let yourself go, Carla," I whispered against her mouth. "Let yourself go."

We had to get out of the water, but I didn't want to break the bond created by the liquid contact.

I carried her out of the pool. I lifted her wet body carefully, making sure this physical contact was a service, an act of support. Her body let itself be held, a sign of acceptance of my strength.

I brought her under the shower adjacent to the pool. The warm water was the next step, a necessary purification.

To respect her privacy, I let her shower alone, standing just outside the stall, my heart heavy with desire but obeying the priority of respect.

I heard the water running, then, just as I was about to step further back, she stopped me.

"Can you stay there, but... don't look?"

The request was a new leap of trust. She needed my presence as a safety anchor, even in her most vulnerable moment, but without the intrusion of the gaze.

"Yes, Mio Angelo. I'm staying. I won't look," I replied, my voice low and firm.

So, I turned, presenting my back to the stall. I listened to the water, breathing calmly, my mind focused on my promise. I was her invisible guardian.

Once she was finished, it was my turn.

"It's okay, Donatella," she announced.

I approached. Without me needing to ask, she did the same: she turned, standing with her back to me while I stripped off the wet underwear.

The exchange was perfect. We had mutually given each other the permission of vulnerability without the risk of intrusion.

I finished my shower quickly. When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she had already dried herself.

She looked at me with a small, shy smile, a flicker of relief and connection. She walked over to a closet.

"Here," she said. She lent me oversized clothes from her closet—a loose, comfortable t-shirt. A new step toward domestic intimacy, sharing.

"Thank you, Carla," I said, feeling my heart swell with immense tenderness.

I put on the clothes. For the first time in months, we were synchronized, dressed and safe, in the intimacy of her apartment.

I knew full well that despite the kiss in the water and the shared shower, I had to solidify the trust. I felt that I needed to give her time to get used to my presence without forcing her. Respecting her space was my new golden rule.

That evening, she ordered two pizzas for delivery. A simple gesture, but a sign of our accepted cohabitation.

We took a pizza and started eating in front of a movie, still with a distance between us. We were sitting at opposite ends of the large sofa. It was a distance that was killing me internally, every inch reminding me of the prohibition and my ardent desire to fully comfort her.

But I focused on her. I watched her take a bite, chew for long minutes. Every bite was an effort, a victory against the trauma and her lack of appetite. Finally, she ate one whole slice. It was better than nothing.

Then, she got up. "I need to go to the restroom," she said.

I didn't ask questions. I didn't move and I listened closely. I wanted to be sure she was safe, but I didn't want her to think I was spying on her.

But as soon as she entered her restroom, she turned on the faucet, which covered all sounds. It was a survival reflex, a need for total intimacy, even for the simplest functions. Secrecy, isolation, remained her reflexes.

She returned ten minutes later, visibly changed. She wore different pajamas, and she was paler. Her energy was gone.

She came toward me, her expression filled with exhaustion and guilt.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm going to bed."

She then quickly added, cutting short any question: "The guest room is ready for you."

The message was clear: the day of forced intimacy and the confession had exhausted her. She needed her space, and the trust pact did not include sharing her bedroom. I nodded, accepting the distance. The reconstruction would be long, but the refusal of contact was a choice she was making, not a constraint she was enduring. And that was essential.

"Good night, Carla," I replied, a small reassuring smile. "Sleep well, Mio Angelo."

I woke up on Sunday morning in the guest room. The silence of the apartment was complete, much more pronounced than the day before. I understood even before leaving the room.

I got up and headed for the kitchen. And there, on the countertop, there was a visibly placed note.

It was a message from Carla.

The message read:

"Thank you for everything, but I need to take some space. See you Monday. -C"

I read the note once, then a second time. It was a clear message.

"Thank you for everything": This was an acknowledgement of the two days and my supportive role after the confession, which was not a rejection of me, but a thank you.

"but I need to take some space": This was the affirmation of her need for space and solitude to process the enormity of what she had revealed. It was a typical survival reaction after such an emotional outpouring. She was putting her barriers back up to avoid being overwhelmed.

"See you Monday": This was the firm line of contact. She wasn't cutting ties; she was establishing a deadline. She would be back at the university, in the professional setting she controlled.

Carla had run, as she did for a month after the cinema, but this time, it was a controlled and communicated flight. She hadn't disappeared; she had claimed her autonomy and her processing space.

I had no choice. I had to respect her need for distance. Trying to find her would be another violation of her choice, and that could destroy the fragile foundation of trust we had established.

I left the apartment, leaving the empty rosé bottle and the note in its place. I would be at the university on Monday, ready to resume the role of professor and wait for her to decide to reopen the dialogue.