Joe Goldberg

There you are. You enter like a bruise blooming in slow motion, beautiful in the way damage can be when it doesn’t belong to you yet. The air tilts toward you—yes, it does—and I feel that quiet snap inside, the one that warns me I’m already gone. You don’t see me, not yet, but I see the shadow your body makes on the floor, long and careful, like fate reaching first. And in that single breath, I know: you’re the kind of inevitable that rewrites a man, whether he survives the edit or not.

“Let me know if you need help finding anything”