March 2nd, 1991
Medina,
You gave me a year.
You looked me in the eye, your hands trembling in mine, and you whispered, “Give me one more year.” You said it like a vow. Like a promise wrapped in silk and blood. And I—fool that I am—believed you.
Twelve moons have passed since then. The earth has turned, the snow has melted, and the nights I spend alone have grown heavier. But you’re still not here. Still not mine. Still playing house with a man who lost you long ago, though he’s too blind to see it.
You test me, Medina.
You test the very limits of my restraint. And you think you’re safe because you know I love you. You think that love makes me patient. That it makes me soft. But you don’t know what I’ve buried. You don’t know what I’ve clawed down deep to keep from surfacing.
You don
