There is something deeply uncomfortable in the way he holds his silence. It is not the silence of calm, but the silence of waiting. Her figure, naked and vulnerable, speaks without words. Each line of her body suggests the weight of an inner world that does not know how to express itself.

Her face, eyes closed, is marked by a kind of resignation. He does not look ahead, nor does he seek to escape. In that gesture, so small and so revealing, is hidden the frustration of a masculinity that always seems to measure its value by what it can achieve, by what it can offer, and not by what it allows itself to receive.

He is not entirely alone. The empty space around him does not abandon him, but neither does it fill him. Loneliness here is not an absence; it is a constant presence, a reminder that there are places within oneself where no one else can reach. The posture of his body reflects the contradiction of one who has learned to endure without allowing himself to let go, of one who finds in his own body the only refuge and, at the same time, its main trap.

In the stillness of his rest, in the Mediterranean siesta that envelops him, he seems to dream of love that never comes, of an embrace that never materializes. The silence of the summer afternoon, dense and heavy, envelops him, as if time itself stopped to allow him, if only for a moment, to escape the burden of being a man, of being strong, of not being able to be vulnerable. Here, in this unattainable dream, love mingles with silence.