We often make the mistake of believing humans are predictable. That they live by patterns. Especially if it’s someone you trust. But when Manuel stops speaking, I’m reminded that I don’t know his brain, not really, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me to lose the only bridge I have to his mind. To feel deprived of his words, the ones he chooses so carefully—the ones that float to my ears like small vivid rings of smoke.
