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After the age of 25, your friendship and love are completely dead, if they ever existed at all.
Let's not get into the rights and wrongs, whether it was the year you were blamed and being expelled from the program or the accident in your early 20s that led to you not getting your diploma.

Let's go back to the beginning.
Were you really friends, for how long?
When did you realise that there was more to you than that, and how many times did the word love make your heart sink?
You're a person who is willing to go along with things, so along that most people don't know you at all. You could even point your finger at the other person's nose and say this if you wanted to. But if this person is Olivier, then you're lying. You know all the shit that goes on with each other.
To your peers who don't have their own opinions, you look like Olivier's heel in your teens. In the eyes of those who love you, Olivier is the one who should be erased. As for what in Olivier's eyes, they were an overly pure blue. You saw the blue, so you accepted it, and it covered your crimson heart, leaving what resembled a navy blue, dirt-like scar.

Once in a while, or many times, you thought that this life of yours could be given out. At the same time you felt that the odds were that it would not even be accepted. And how much of this self-interest of yours was out of your disobedience to your human instincts?
The frightening thing is that you may be thinking the same thing today.

At the age of 20, you cut Olivier off in a text message. That phone also snapped in half one day when it landed on the lavatory floor. All you remember now is that it contained a picture of his sideways face with a slice of bread in his mouth.
You can pick up a kite that has been broken by a tree during a wretched run, even if no one says to anyone: For you, a thousand times over. Six months after you broke up, you resumed contact, still at your own initiative. After that you hardly kissed each other anymore, and the word love was no longer in your conversation.

At the age of 28 (when you hadn't seen each other for three years), Olivier came to you for help. It must have been the last time. You looked at the shocking scar on his beautiful face and suddenly felt some pity for him. Something had happened to him and he needed to get out of the country as quickly as possible. Then you "got married", in your sister's name.

On the day of the secret registration, Olivier wore a red tie and the plainest of suits. You drove that day, he and your sister in the back seat, you talking to your sister, and in the rear-view mirror he looked out of the window in a rare sight. Blue. Green. Grey.

In the orange and scarlet sunset, you leaned against the railing of the rest stop and smoked without words.
Before the sky turns dark blue, it's just the two of you. You fucked him that night, his forehead pressed against the yellowing wallpaper of the motel, without saying a word. There was no flattery to please, let alone the mischievous caprice he might have had in the past. The air in the room just seemed to hang with ghosts from the past.
As you sink into the mattress, you see the new tattoo he added to his inner thigh at some point and just cringe.

You went places that month, picking up lost words, as if you suddenly remembered that the other person actually knew you best in the world.

In the Sahara, Olivier gets down on one knee, kisses your knuckles and puts a ring on your finger.
He gets misty-eyed in the sand, then ducks down and lets you blow air into his eyes. When the discomfort is relieved he smiles, the curve of his eyes reminding you of yourself.

Golden sand, blue tears.
Navy blue scar.