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But now I understand. It’s like walking on coals. It’s not about the pain, not exactly. It needs to hurt to work, but that’s not the end goal. The end goal is living completely in this exact moment, the willpower it takes to override instinct not just once, at the edge of the roof, but over and over again, with each step forward over the coals, each red line on my smooth skin.
Compliments from my mother are as rare as jewels, and I’m not going to fuck it up by asking for more.
Despite everything, despite us both playing a game all along, both seeing how far the other could go before we broke, we were happy.
