#regroup

allongé dans mon lit, les fenêtres grandes ouvertes,

le vent effleure ma peau

tandis que la musique berce doucement mon âme.

Et dans ce calme apparent,

une partie de moi s’avance,

seule, en première ligne,

face à un combat silencieux

entre mon esprit et mon corps.

Un combat sanglant,

peint d’un bleu profond.

Ce bleu qui habille mes journées,

terne, monotone,

si lourd qu’il étouffe tout le reste,

si vaste qu’il ne laisse presque plus de place au jaune.

Le jaune…

celui qui autrefois brillait,

et qui aujourd’hui s’efface,

jour après jour.

Alors il ne reste que quelques mots,

qui résonnent en écho dans ce vide :

« vide »

« abandon »

« être trop »

Des mots qui dansent lentement

dans une étrange harmonie avec ce bleu.

Pour masquer le chaos,

je recouvre tout d’un voile jaune,

fragile, presque transparent…

juste assez pour faire croire que tout va bien,

juste assez pour ne pas déranger,

pour ne pas faire fuir.

Alors je cours.

Je fuis.

Je fuis cet adversaire invisible

qui porte pourtant mon propre visage.

Je fuis ces instants de lucidité

où mes pensées deviennent trop lourdes,

trop tranchantes…

Car à chaque fois,

je me fissure un peu plus.

Et un jour,

il ne restera plus assez de moi

pour tenir debout.

Le Amin que tout le monde connaît

s’effacera,

doucement…

jusqu’à disparaître.

Et ça…

The boy was smaller than Frank expected. That was the first thing that stuck with him. Billy Russo’s son sat on the edge of a metal folding chair in a bare precinct interview room, sneakers not quite touching the floor. His hands were folded tight in his lap, knuckles pale, like he was holding himself together by force alone. Too quiet. Too still. Survivor.

Frank didn’t step in right away. He watched through the narrow window in the door, arms crossed, jaw set. Counted exits. Clocked the flicker in the fluorescent light. Noted the way the kid flinched at raised voices down the hall. “Same look Amy had,” Frank muttered. Rachel Cole stood beside him. “When you first met her?”

Frank nodded once. “Before she trusted anyone.” Rachel glanced through the glass again. “You didn’t scare her off.” “No,” Frank said. “She scared me first.” That earned the faintest smile from Rachel before she opened the door and went in. She crouched to the boy’s level. “Someone wants to meet you,” she said gently. “He’s not a cop.”

Henry's eyes lifted, sharp and guarded. Frank stepped inside. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften his posture. Instead, he stopped a few feet away and dropped to one knee—so he wasn’t looming. So the kid had space. “My name’s Frank,” he said. Henry studied him. “Frank what?” “Just Frank.” A long pause.

“You knew my dad,” the boy said. Frank met his eyes. “Yeah.” “Everyone keeps saying different things about him.” “They will,” Frank said quietly. The boy hesitated, then asked, “Was he bad?” Rachel stiffened. Frank didn’t. “He made choices,” Frank said. “Some hurt people.”

Henry's voice dropped. “Does that mean I’m bad too?” Frank answered instantly. “No.” The boy searched his face. “You sure?” “You don’t inherit someone else’s sins,” Frank said. “You make your own choices.” That landed. Henry exhaled, just a little. “Why are you here?” he asked.

Frank shifted his weight. “Because things your father did made the world dangerous for you. And because kids deserve someone who doesn’t lie to them.” Henry frowned. “You do this a lot? Help kids?” Frank thought of Amy Bendix—smart mouth, stolen backpack, eyes that never stopped scanning for exits.

“I’ve got a friend,” Frank said. “She’s about your age. Didn’t trust me either.” Henry blinked. “What happened?” “She stuck around anyway,” Frank said. “Turns out she’s tougher than most adults I know.” Rachel smiled softly. Henry considered that. “She okay?” Frank nodded. “Yeah. She’s okay.”

That seemed to matter. “Are you gonna lock me up?” Henry asked. “No.” “Send me away?” “No.” A beat. Then, barely audible: “Hurt me?” Frank’s voice didn’t waver. “Never.” The boy slid off the chair and stood on his own. “You don’t talk like grown-ups.” Frank snorted under his breath. “I get that a lot.” Henry studied him, then said, “You look tired.” “Yeah.” “From fighting?” “From surviving.”

SAN ANTONIO — In determined want of a response after a blowout street loss to the Oklahoma Metropolis Thunder, the Golden State Warriors turned to their most dependable slump-buster 24 hours later. Stephen Curry, the 17-year NBA legend in his personal private skid, blasted off for 22 third-quarter factors as a part of a 46-point efficiency to steer the Warriors to a 125-120 victory over the Spurs…