I feel like this is a good chapter to share the story:
When Raphael lost his ring finger — in other words, when he could no longer make vows of love — he forgot how to love someone. That meant even when it rained, he couldn’t long for anyone. Things like mistaking a stranger’s silhouette for someone he missed were illusions that no longer existed for him. To Raphael, who had just come of age, Margo Weaver was everything in the world. But it wasn’t love. It was jealousy. It was a desire to conquer. He was like a target he was determined to bring down someday. Sometimes, after sex, Margo would place the cigar he always smoked between his lips, look into Raphael’s eyes, and say: “If you want to stay beneath me, bet everything.” But he, too, never spoke of love carelessly. It was laughable, really — considering he was the one who had lost his ring finger, as if to ensure he could never promise love to anyone again. Raphael thought Margo was the one who was afraid. He stayed by his side , working thoroughly like his hands and feet — always taking the initiative to handle what he wanted, what he needed. Like his shadow. Like the strong liquor he drank constantly. At times, just like any presence that seemed to exist by default. And then, Margo did something foolish. He gave a place at his side — something he should never have offered — to the one person he should never have trusted. He had given it away. Can anyone separate themselves from their shadow? No one ever could. And after a long time, on the day Raphael killed Margo — he did think of him, if only for a moment. He wondered — if he still had the ring finger on his left hand, would he have been able to feel even the faintest trace of love for him? Raphael lit one of the cigars he used to smoke. He would often lounge on the sofa in the same relaxed posture he used to sit in. The empty space where his ring finger used to be would, from time to time, remind him of the one he had destroyed with his own hands. But without being defined, a feeling holds no meaning. Unless you call it love — yes, it’s as if it was never love at all. Raphael didn’t long for anyone on rainy days. He simply chose to forget that feeling — pitiful, tattered, and endlessly fragile.
I feel like this is a good chapter to share the story:
When Raphael lost his ring finger — in other words, when he could no longer make vows of love — he forgot how to love someone.
That meant even when it rained, he couldn’t long for anyone.
Things like mistaking a stranger’s silhouette for someone he missed were illusions that no longer existed for him.
To Raphael, who had just come of age, Margo Weaver was everything in the world. But it wasn’t love.
It was jealousy. It was a desire to conquer. He was like a target he was determined to bring down someday.
Sometimes, after sex, Margo would place the cigar he always smoked between his lips, look into Raphael’s eyes, and say:
“If you want to stay beneath me, bet everything.”
But he, too, never spoke of love carelessly.
It was laughable, really — considering he was the one who had lost his ring finger, as if to ensure he could never promise love to anyone again.
Raphael thought Margo was the one who was afraid.
He stayed by his side , working thoroughly like his hands and feet — always taking the initiative to handle what he wanted, what he needed.
Like his shadow. Like the strong liquor he drank constantly.
At times, just like any presence that seemed to exist by default.
And then, Margo did something foolish.
He gave a place at his side — something he should never have offered — to the one person he should never have trusted.
He had given it away.
Can anyone separate themselves from their shadow?
No one ever could.
And after a long time, on the day Raphael killed Margo —
he did think of him, if only for a moment.
He wondered — if he still had the ring finger on his left hand, would he have been able to feel even the faintest trace of love for him?
Raphael lit one of the cigars he used to smoke.
He would often lounge on the sofa in the same relaxed posture he used to sit in.
The empty space where his ring finger used to be would, from time to time, remind him of the one he had destroyed with his own hands.
But without being defined, a feeling holds no meaning.
Unless you call it love — yes, it’s as if it was never love at all.
Raphael didn’t long for anyone on rainy days.
He simply chose to forget that feeling — pitiful, tattered, and endlessly fragile.