Adrien had become a persistent, omnipresent shadow. He wouldn't let her breathe anymore. In her dreams, he danced with her in the rain, his whispers echoing long after she woke. In her thoughts, his face intruded, his burning gaze superimposing itself on every page she read, every face she saw. His gestures, even the most innocuous, were tinged with his presence: a hand lingering a little too close to hers, a body brushing hers in a crowded hallway. He undressed her with his gaze, with an unbearable slowness that tormented Élisa, leaving her naked and exposed despite her clothes. She couldn't bear it anymore. This constant tension, this endless waiting, gnawed at her.
One evening, as the sun set over Casablanca, Élisa saw him leave the university. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and damp. Driven by an irresistible force, she decided to follow him. She saw him turn into a narrow street, lined with ancient buildings, before he disappeared behind a heavy wooden door. She approached cautiously and realized he had entered an old abandoned theater, a place whose decaying walls seemed to hold whispers of the past.
She hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding, then pushed the door which creaked faintly. The interior was plunged into a dusty gloom, the smell of time and mold filling the air. Seats covered in ghostly white sheets, an obscure stage where a silhouette was outlined. Adrien. He stood there, in the middle of the immense hall, his gaze fixed on the empty stage, as if awaiting an invisible performance.
"Adrien!" Her voice echoed in the silence, barely a whisper.
He turned slowly, unsurprised. His face was an enigma. Without a word, he approached her, his steps resonating in the vast space. He drew her close, one hand resting on her back, the other gently moving up her arm. A slow dance began, without music, their bodies barely moving, but the proximity was overwhelming, too close. His hand brushed her hip, a barely veiled caress that sent electric shocks through her body. Their breaths mingled in the heavy air, hot and rapid. Élisa felt his lips drawing closer to hers, an almost-kiss that tortured her. She waited, her body tense, ready to lose herself in this fusion. But at the last instant, he stopped the movement, his lips brushing hers without truly touching.
Then, he whispered, his voice hoarse, a promise and a threat: "Not yet. When you beg me."
He released her, leaving her panting, her body on fire, and exited the theater as silently as he had entered, leaving her alone in the darkness, the memory of his forbidden touch etched beneath her skin.