Cold light grows names on burning glass. Not desire. Habit. The pulse learns what the body hasn’t recognized yet. Under a night that doesn’t end, but updates, they are born. And then the word appears. Not spoken. Sent. Dressed in haste, brief voice and exact pulse. It speaks of always. Of everything. Of what never quite arrives. And while it promises, it fixes. No need to look at each other. The image already decides. And what it names begins to hurt. From inside, others repeat the gesture. They arrive without having been there. They sow intensity like someone who doesn’t understand what they open. The body doesn’t respond. It offers itself. It measures itself. It stays. And burns. Burns without pause, as burns what has nowhere to stay. The names don’t wait. They try themselves on. Uncertain. Exposed. Waiting for something that won’t go out. Because the immediate also tires. But what is felt doesn’t. What is felt insists. Insists in the way of looking afterward, when the noise settles and no one responds like before. Even so, even late, even without signal, it knows how to hold a heartbeat.