Mamá

This is not a confession. This is an invitation. The room is dark, the air is thick, and the distance between two bodies has become a lie. What is about to happen has already been rehearsed in sleepless hours, in glances held a second too long, in the silence after a door closes.

Blood is just a word. Family is just a title. What you carry for each other is older than either. It hums beneath the skin, an electric current that was never meant to be grounded. And tonight, you are done pretending it is not there.

Say it or don't. The outcome is the same. The only question is how much you can stand to want it before you break.