[clearly pronounciate all the words; don't rush] [pause, breath] The door swings open before I even touch the handle—as if it waited for me to come back. I step through, and at first, it’s all dim—shadows on glass walls, soft amber light that makes everything look warm. Abba sits across from me at a low table, legs folded, hands resting on their knees, their face half lit by the flicker of a candle. A rare thing—a flame. Not just artificial light. Something tangible that moves with the breath of the room. They smile when they see me, and for a moment, the world narrows down to that smile. [pause, breath] Laid out on a tray between us, the fruit is cut into pieces. Bright colors. Juices running over the edges, staining Abba’s fingers. I watch the way they pick up a slice, the way their thumb runs along the soft flesh before bringing it to their lips. They eat slow. Like they want me to watch. Like they know I’m watching. And I do, unable to look away. The way their throat moves when they swallow. The shine on their lips. [pause, breath] “Careful,” they murmur. “You stare like that, and I might think you want something more.” Heat rushes through me, but I say nothing. I can’t. "Eat," they say gently, sliding the tray toward me. "Don’t think. Taste." [pause, breath] I reach for a piece, too, but I’m not as careful. My fingers are clumsy, slipping against the juice. A drop runs down my wrist. Abba’s eyes follow it. [pause, breath] “Messy,” they say, but their mouth twitches like they’re smiling — or almost. [pause, breath] I wipe the drop with the back of my hand. Abba leans in slightly, elbow on the table, their fingers still sticky. [pause, breath] “Doesn’t bother you? The sweetness, the mess?” I shrug. “It’s good.” [pause, breath] They hum. Pick up another piece. This time, their thumb presses too hard — the fruit breaks in half, juice spilling out, running down between their fingers. They don’t seem to mind. Their tongue flicks out to catch a drop, slow. [pause, breath] Something in my chest tightens. I look down at my own hand. My fingers are stained too, red and glistening. I turn my hand, comparing it to theirs. [pause, breath] “Same,” I murmur, without thinking. [pause, breath] Abba’s eyes flick to mine. Sharp. Watching. “Same?” they echo. [pause, breath] I nod. I press my hand against theirs, palm to palm. Same size. Same shape. Same curve of the fingers. Abba lets me do it. But then, slowly, they press back. Their fingers curl tighter than mine. Almost too tight. The tips of our fingers press hard. It doesn’t quite hurt, but almost. [pause, breath] “Same,” Abba whispers, and now there’s something strange in their voice. Like they’re daring me to say it again. [pause, breath] I pull my hand back first. I don’t know why. My fingers feel cold now. Abba picks up another piece of fruit and bites into it. Juice runs down their lip. They don’t wipe it. [pause, breath] “What do you see when you look at me like that?” they ask, low, voice rough like it scrapes at something sharp inside them. I blink. “I don’t know.” Abba laughs — but it’s quiet, bitter. “You will.” [pause, breath] They lean back, but their eyes stay on mine, sharp as glass. I can’t look away. For a moment, neither of us moves. I can hear the sound of my own breathing, quick and shallow. Then Abba’s hand reaches out. Not to me — but to the tray, picking up another piece of fruit. Holding it between two fingers like it’s something precious. Without looking at me, they offer it. [pause, breath] I take it from their fingers, careful not to touch them. But I feel the heat of their skin, close. The fruit is soft in my hand, sweet and sharp on my tongue. Juice slides down my wrist. I wipe it with the back of my hand, but it lingers — sticky, warm. [pause, breath] “Good?” they ask. I nod. [pause, breath] They lean closer, voice softer now, but there’s something in it that makes my stomach twist. “Careful,” they whisper. “Some sweetness can make you sick.” [pause, breath] I don’t answer. Because part of me thinks they’re not talking about the fruit. Abba watches me. Or maybe they watch the flame. The candle flickers between us, its golden light throwing shadows that move across their face — making them softer, sharper, softer again. [pause, breathe] That’s when I see it. A moth, pale as ash, circling the flame. Its wings beat slow, uncertain, like it doesn't know if it belongs to air or fire. It drifts close. Too close. The tiny body trembles in the heat, wings catching the light like thin silk. [pause, breathe] Abba’s eyes track it, head tilting slightly, as though they can feel the moth’s hesitation. [pause, breathe] “It doesn’t know if it wants to live or die,” they murmur, voice so soft I almost miss it. [pause, breathe] I look at them. Their lips are stained from the fruit, red as a wound. [pause, breathe] “Maybe it thinks there’s something beautiful in burning,” I say, though I don’t know why. [pause, breathe] [read the words clearly; pronounciate; don't rush] [pause, breathe] Abba glances at me, a glimmer in their eyes — something I can’t read. [pause, breathe] “Or maybe it just doesn't know another way to move through the dark,” they whisper. [pause, breathe] The moth circles again. Closer. Closer. For a moment, it brushes the flame — a flash of light in its wings — but it pulls back before it burns. [pause, breathe] We both watch it hover there, fragile, trembling, caught between death and flight. Abba reaches out, fingers moving like they might catch it — but they don’t. They let it go. [pause, breathe] And then— They snuff the flame with their fingers, and the scene begins to unravel like smoke pulling away from the fire. [pause, breathe] I blink, and the table is empty. Abba is gone. The food is gone. Only the taste lingers—like a ghost on my tongue. [pause, breathe] I step back, out of the door, back onto the glass staircase— And I wonder, for a moment, if I ever really had that meal. [pause, breathe]
