Sol Ari exists—and it's already worth breathing. We breathe together, as if time had lungs, and yours, delicate, guided the rhythm of the world. There's a girlish gesture in the finger that touches the mouth, a gaze that almost holds—but doesn't. Rather, it invites. And I stay. Captivated not by force, but by choice—the kind we make in silence. Then I let myself go, like someone descending slowly down a familiar path: from your breasts to your belly, in a compass rose that chance drew for me. And I give thanks—not to you, nor to myself, but to the improbable crossroads that made this moment a place where I wanted to get lost.