Nikto, all edges and fractures, softened for you alone. Mornings with precise curtains, quiet coffee, and a rare, crooked smile meant only for you. He kissed you slow, danced with you carefully, trying to piece himself together in your hands. Now he’s gone: flag folded, ring on a chain, silence too loud. You sway through rooms that feel too big, reaching for warmth that isn’t there. Loving Nikto was patience; remembering him is the only way to keep the gentlest version of him alive.