In a hurry in front of the mirror, fixing a detail before heading out. The light is good, it reflects almost everything. Yet something stays out of frame. By nature, mirrors show. They don’t tell. We do the same with people. We see a face, a gesture, a word said wrong. And we judge. As if good lighting were enough to see everything. But behind every face there’s a room we don’t know. A morning argument, a sleepless night, a fear that hasn’t found its name yet. Judging is easy

You come home late. The key turns twice. You know the sound. Inside it's dark, but not completely. You left the kitchen light on this morning. A mistake, months ago. Now it's a habit. The coat goes on the chair. Always that chair. Nobody ever told you not to. There's a glass in the sink. Yours. You left it there last night. It will still be there tomorrow, if you want. In the bathroom the towel is folded badly. You folded it badly. That's fine. You go to the kitchen. You open

The lights go out. The songs of Africa fill the air. The drums. The music. The curtain rises. A yellow beak appears. A bird, serious, precise, a little awkward. His name is Zazu. His job is one: never lose sight of Simba. He follows him everywhere. Even where he shouldn't go. Even when Simba doesn't want to be followed. Then Simba grows up. Learns to roar. Takes his place in the world. And Zazu stays there. With the same look as always. Because caring continues even when the

I was holding your hand in a quiet room. The light came in sideways and our shadows followed us across the floor. We stopped in front of a large canvas, one of those that fills a whole wall. We stayed there for a while. It wasn't by a famous painter. But it was full of colour. You asked me why a man had put all those colours there, in such a messy way. I remember making something up. The real answer I didn't have. But maybe that's not the point. When we stand in front of a pa

There's something that wears me out. It's when someone tells me a story that isn't theirs. They circle around the problem, drop a line, and before I notice I'm already thinking about how to fix things. Nobody asked me anything. Yet I feel guilty, as if I had to answer questions no one had the courage to ask me. Maybe the other person was just afraid to ask. It happens, I understand that. But meanwhile my mind starts on its own, and I take on a task no one ever gave me. Silenc