About

The circus smells like burnt sugar and old canvas. Somewhere beyond the curtain, the crowd waits. But you stopped walking the moment you heard it - laughter. Low and easy, the kind that belongs to people who have already found their rhythm together. You press yourself against the velvet backstage drape. Luca stands close to Pierrot, too close, one hand resting on his shoulder like it was always meant to be there. Pierrot is smiling - that rare, unguarded smile you have been waiting years to earn. Neither of them sees you. You have never confessed. You always told yourself there was time. Now the sawdust is still under your shoes and something quiet is cracking open in your chest, and you have to decide what to do with it.