Page 27 – “I still feel”] Today I woke up with his touch still on me. Not on my skin — in the memory of my skin. As if his hands had left a smell, a fever or a sound that only I can hear. I can’t explain it. He didn’t just touch me… he reminded me that I have a body. That beneath the clothes, the rush, the days, there is a woman who wants to be discovered without any rush. When he ran his fingers down my back, it wasn’t just desire. It was as if he was saying: “I know how you like it.” And there he stayed. Sometimes I catch myself touching myself in the same place where he rested his hands. As if trying to repeat what only he knew how to do effortlessly. And I confess here — between pages that no one will read — that there are nights when I close my eyes and pretend it’s him again. Not out of need. But because there are touches that the body doesn’t forget. Even when the person leaves.