Before the gas is wasted,
someone must decide
whether the fire is worth the burn.

I thought to myself
in a house that did not belong to me,
who will be there
when the walls remember everything?

East Carolina was not a place.
It was a direction.
It was where silence went
when it did not want to speak.

“I don’t want,”
said the boy made of stone.
“I love you,”
said the echo inside the corridor.
“I am also jealous,”
whispered the shadow
standing behind both of them.

It’s coming.
It’s coming.

Not the storm.
Not the end.
But the moment when excuses dissolve
and truth refuses to wait.

He admits he is not hoarse.
The silence was chosen.

There is no such thing here
as accidental forgetting.
Every absence
is architecture.

Let’s go to the house.

But which house?
The one before the gas is wasted?
The one where I thought to myself
that I was not strong
but I was calling?

I am not strong.
But I am calling.

The price is not 100 Euros.
The price is hesitation.
The price is the breath you swallow
instead of saying
stay.

Who will be there
when it’s coming finally arrives?

Before the gas is wasted
the flame flickers once more.

East Carolina turns into memory.
The house turns into decision.
The stone learns to speak.

It’s coming.

Not destruction.
Not salvation.

Just the moment
when you stop pretending
you didn’t hear it
all along.

And in that moment,
before anything burns,
before anything collapses,
you thought to yourself—

I am not strong.

But I am calling.

And this time,
the walls answer.