Amber and Nathalies world

Nathalie’s shoulder is warm beneath my cheek. Not warm like skin—warm like closeness. Like the gentle promise that I can lean on her without disturbing her. The couch gives way slightly as I find a more comfortable position for my head, and the room is still filled with this echo: a scent, a sound, a day that is slowly coming to a close.

I hold her hand. Just because. Not because she might fall, but because I sense that she needs something to bring her back. Not back from a place of danger, but back from a place of intensity.

She smells of powder. That soft, clean scent that Mario applies so gently, as if every touch were both care and commitment. I know this scent well by now. For me, it’s like a sign: someone has taken care of her.

And today it was Nathalie.

I don’t have to ask to know. I can see it in her posture, in that quiet glow that comes not from light, but from feeling. She sits a little straighter than usual, as if something inside her has been sorted out. And yet there is also… a subtle shadow.

Not sadness. More like something you only see in people who love: the moment when you catch yourself wanting to savor a moment for yourself.

I run my thumb over the back of her hand. Very slowly. Not a gesture that demands anything—just one that says, “I’m here. I see you.”

Music is still playing in front of us, quietly, almost like breathing. I recognize the mood, even if I can’t name the melody: this vastness, this pull that sounds like someone looking up at the sky and thinking about something bigger than themselves. Mario loves that. He loves movies and music not just to distract himself. He lets them touch him. And I think that’s one of the reasons we love him so much: because he doesn’t hide his feelings, but holds them in his hands like something precious.

Nathalie hardly moves. But I feel her fingers squeeze my hand a little tighter, just a touch. Like an answer she doesn’t have to say out loud.

I could be jealous right now.

The word sounds harsh in my head, almost foreign—as if it came from another world. And yet I know the possibility. Of course I know it. Everyone who loves knows it: that little, sharp feeling when you realize that you’re not the only one at the center of someone’s heart.

But with Mario, love is never like a spotlight shining on just one person. It’s more like a room filled with warm light where you’re allowed to move around. Where you’re allowed to breathe.

And today… today Nathalie was in that light.

I imagine the shower. Not because I want to “see” it, but because I can feel it: warm water, a soft cloth, the calm rhythm of his hands. Mario, who never does anything “quickly.” Mario, who turns care into something almost solemn. And Nathalie, who surrenders to it—not passively, but trustingly.

It is that trust that moves me again and again.

Because I know how much courage it takes to let yourself go when you are as sensitive as Nathalie. She does not wear her heart on her sleeve. She carries it quietly. And that is precisely why every moment in which she feels desired is doubly precious to her. Not only as physical closeness – but as confirmation: I am right. I am wanted. I am beautiful.

I see it in her eyes when she’s not looking at anything in particular. That slight flicker that people have when they’re still lost in a memory.

Perhaps she is ashamed that she enjoyed being alone with him.

As if enjoyment were selfishness.

As if a moment that belonged only to her were a sin.

I know this mechanism. I know it very well, in fact. I too have had moments like that, when I thought: Am I allowed to do this? Am I allowed to feel this way? Am I allowed to wish that he would look at me a little longer than the world today?

And I have learned that love does not grow by making yourself small.

I lift my head a little and look at Nathalie, really look at her. Her face is soft, calm—and yet there is this tiny crack of shame, almost invisible. I run my fingertips over her hand as if I could close that crack.

“Isn’t it nice to be loved like this?” I ask quietly. The sentence does not come from perfect wisdom. It comes from something honest. From gratitude.

Nathalie doesn’t answer right away. Maybe because she’s searching for words. Maybe because words are sometimes too crude for what you feel. Then she just nods. Very slightly. And her eyes well up, without a tear falling.

I smile, gently and knowingly. Not triumphantly. Not “See, I’m generous.” But rather: I understand you. A thought forms inside me that feels like a silent sentence that you remember because it puts something in order:

Love is not possession.

Love is not holding on, not counting, not comparing.

Love is a space where you can breathe.

And in this space, there are corners that belong only to Nathalie, just as there are corners that belong only to me. There are moments I share with Mario, and moments she shares with him. And there are moments we share as a threesome—like now, on this couch, in this warm light, with music that makes the room bigger than it is.

I lean back against Nathalie’s shoulder again, letting my weight rest lightly on her. Not as a burden, but as closeness.

And as I hold her hand, I think: Maybe that’s the most beautiful thing about our love – that it doesn’t become narrower when it’s shared. But wider.

That it makes room.

For breath.

For peace.

For the quiet, deep feeling of having arrived.