I am at home. The walls feel especially tight today — as if all the space has shrunk, as if time itself presses on my chest. I pace the room from corner to corner until I realize that if I don't distract myself, I will just explode. I decide to go to the store. Just to buy groceries. To dive into the ordinary, to grab onto whatever I can still control.
Returning home, I make dinner. A simple dish, but made with heart. Not because I'm a cook, but because I need to keep my hands busy, to somehow compensate for the chaos inside. It is my way of saying "sorry." Not through words — through actions. Because sometimes words are nothing.
Katrin left more than four hours ago. Four endless, agonizing hours. At first, I am just nervous, then I start to get angry, and then — afraid. Fear eats me like acid. I imagine things I shouldn't imagine. Like her with him. How he touches her. How she allows him… I hate myself for those thoughts, for the jealousy, for even allowing such things. But they break through — like water through cracks in glass.
To keep from going insane, I sit on the couch and start mindlessly scrolling through my phone feed. Useless. Nothing can distract me. Only one thought — where is she? Why has she been gone so long? And then — the click of the lock. My heart jumps. I jump up as if struck by lightning in the chest.
She. Katrin. My girl. My, damn it, other half. But she looks… damn bad. Her face is pale, her eyes red, as if she has been crying for a long time. Her lips press tight. Her hair is tangled. What's wrong with her?.. What's happening to us? I want to ask a million questions, but the memory of the morning hits me like a slap. I have already crossed the line once. Not now. It has to be different. With love. With patience. With warmth.
"Hi," I smile, holding back the lump in my throat. The smile comes out fragile, broken, but sincere.
"Hi…" she whispers. Her voice… like silk that has been cut with a blade. Broken. Tired. Empty.
I stand, looking at her, feeling my heart slowly tighten like a fist. As if something inside is breaking beyond any control. Katrin stands very close, but seems infinitely far away. Not the fun, daring, life-hungry one. But empty. Lost. Exhausted.
How can I bring her to this?.. When does love start cracking at the seams, and we don't notice? Or don't want to notice? Why do we, two people in love who once couldn't imagine a day without each other, become like this — strangers? Unknown. Distant. As if a wall of pain, grievances, and silence has grown between us.
Why does the pain between us become stronger than love?..
"Let's have dinner? I cooked everything," I say softly, as if afraid to scare her away.
She takes off her coat, moving slowly, weakly, as if every muscle resists the movement. Her shoulders are slumped, her gaze dull and tired. In this silence, she seems fragile, like glass ready to break at the slightest touch. And I see — she isn't hearing me. Or doesn't want to. As if she has locked away everything inside: sounds, words, emotions. She just walks forward, past me, as if I don't exist, as if I am the past she is running from. Like a shadow about to disappear at sunset.
I can't allow it.
My heart pounds in my chest, fear and love fighting fiercely inside. I step up and hug her from behind. Carefully. Gently. Almost timidly. My arms wrap around her waist as if asking permission to stay. My body reaches for her like for the last chance to breathe. As if if I let go — I'll lose her forever. She freezes. I feel her tense, her breath falter. And I freeze too — afraid to take an extra step, say an extra word. Everything inside begs for one thing only: let her stay. Let her hear. Feel. Let her believe again that I am here.
"Please… just have dinner with me. I don't want to lose you. I beg you…" My voice trembles. I really am on the edge. She is my everything. And I am losing her.
"Okay…" she barely breathes out. That word carries everything: fatigue, pain, despair. She agrees as if against her will, as if with great effort. But I still feel a spark of hope.
We sit at the table. Look at each other across the plates. The air between us is heavy, like lead. But she starts to eat. Greedily, quickly. Swallowing pieces as if she hasn't eaten in ages. And even though she denies it, I see — the hunger is real. And every bite seems to give her back a little life.
"Tastes good?" I quietly ask, like a child waiting for approval.
She looks at me with an empty expression and answers:
"Okay. Could be better. Lacking flavor."
I smirk to myself. Her attempt to be indifferent — it is her defense. A little shield she raises to keep me at a distance. But I know. I see. I see how greedily she eats. How her eyes soften a little. How at the corners of her lips appears a barely noticeable movement, like gratitude.
She is lying. Lying because she is afraid. Because she doesn't want to get attached again. Or — because she is already saying goodbye. And I… I sit there feeling the world crumble under my feet. But as long as she is here — I will be near. I will hold her even if she is already leaving.
"How's Ivan?" I ask, with such sarcasm that the air seems to hang heavy with poison. I give a crooked smile, as if I pulled that phrase out of a rotten tooth with pliers. It disgusts me to say it, but I want to hear how she will react. Want to catch even a shadow of regret in her eyes. Something real.
"He said hi," her voice is icy, detached, like she is talking about the weather. "Wished you good health."
My teeth clench like rusty gears grinding under the weight of anger. I feel my jaw tense and a prickly chill run down my spine. "He said hi…" — that is the last person who should come up in conversation. Her calmness hurts more than any accusation.
"Same to him," I grind out through my teeth, spitting out bitterness.
"Anything else or am I going to bed?" she cuts me off, looking at me with blatant rudeness.
No hint of interest, no ounce of sympathy. Her voice is steel, hardened and merciless. As if I am just a late customer, not the person who has just opened his soul to her.
I am silent for a second, two… Can't let it go like that.
"I want you," I finally say, and desperation sounds in my voice, not passion. A desperate attempt to cling to something alive between us, if it still exists.
She squints, and in her gaze appears that familiar fire — cynical, playful, dangerous.
"Hm. Your free limit is running out, kid," her lips twitch in a cold sneer.
"How much is the extension?" I don't want to play her games, but I am already in deep.
"Afraid you can't afford my rate," there is a hint of contempt in her voice. She seems to dance on my vulnerability.
"Don't worry about me. Speak plainly," I say quietly, but there is a tense spring ready to snap in those words.
"Want to buy me like a prostitute?" Suddenly, she slams her spoon into my plate with a crash. The metal rings like a shot. I flinch. The air between us thickens, as if clots of anger and resentment are floating in it.
"I didn't call you that. And I didn't put a price on you," I try to keep my voice steady, but something inside tightens into a knot. I don't recognize her — or myself next to her.
"Answer the question," she presses harshly. Her eyes sparkle like blades. No mercy. No asking. Demanding.
"No… because you're not a prostitute," I say with painful sincerity. I want her to see, to feel that behind this phrase — no lie, no manipulation. But a heavy, helpless truth.
"Or maybe because you don't have enough money?" Her voice is like a whip. Each word strikes open wounds.
"What kind of nonsense is this?!" I almost shout. "What stupid things are you even saying?! I love you, and…"
I don't get to finish. She suddenly stands and slaps me. Sharp. Fast. Without warning. So much that my vision darkens. My ears ring. My cheek burns, but my heart burns even more.
"Stop talking that crap about love," she says, looking down on me. "That feeling doesn't exist for me. We had fun — time to know when to stop."
I look at her like she is something impossible. Like a person I knew a thousand years ago, but who suddenly turned into a ghost.
"Why are you like this to me?" I whisper. "We were good. Together."
"Not bad," Katrin nods. "I admit. But everything ends eventually."
"No…" I shake my head like a child told his favorite toy no longer exists. "I won't let you go. No matter what you do, I won't stop loving you. You're my Rebel. And you will be forever."
She turns away, glancing over her shoulder as if leaving for another life.
"All you'll have left is the nickname you gave me… not I."
"Why don't you want to be with me?" My voice trembles, like ice cracking beneath it.
I look at her and don't recognize her. Her face seems a mask she wears only around me. Hard, indifferent, arrogant. But I remember her eyes when she smiles — truly. There is another Katrin. Alive.
"Because I don't love you," she says, as if firing a shot.
The words "don't love" sound like a cold verdict. But I hear her voice tremble. Slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Only the attentive would notice. And I — I listen with all my heart.
And I know: she is lying.
"Why are you lying?" I ask softly, almost whispering. Not accusing. Just knowing.
She looks away. Takes a step aside as if distance could be a shield between us.
"You know what the real problem is?" Her voice grows quieter, but it sounds tired. Pain hidden behind bravado.
"In me?" I ask, though I already know the answer. I am ready to be the cause if it will save her.
"Yes. More precisely… in your head," she snorts and shakes her head, as if tired of explaining the obvious. "You invented that I'm perfect. So beautiful, kind, fragile. And it closed your eyes to who I really am. Wake up already. Face the truth! I won't be with you. It was just a game."
I gasp for air. As if someone punched me in the solar plexus.
"A game?" I exhale, trying to understand if she really devalues everything we have with one word — a game.
"Yes. I just played on the fact that you fell in love with me. And you — fell for it. How don't you get it… I won't change for you. We have no future and never will."
Her words sound like gunshots. She shoots without warning, aiming at the places where something alive still beats.
"You're wrong," I say with a break in my voice. "I know who you are. I managed to reach you. I saw the real Katrin."
"And? What is she like?" she challenges, leaning forward. Her eyes flare. "Come on, surprise me."
"Smart. Fun…"
"Everyone knows that already," she interrupts with a smirk, scornful and bitter.
"I'm not finished. Let me…" I inhale, feeling a lump of words in my chest. "Kind. Gentle. Compassionate. Fragile, like…"
"Oh, any minute now — you'll make me a dandelion," her laugh is harsh, like rust on glass. "I'm not a dandelion. I'm a rose. With thorns. I lure everyone with my beauty, but in reality — a prickly bastard. So shove all that stuff you tell me about myself somewhere, because it's nothing like me."
Rebel Girl spins sharply, as if slamming a door. But suddenly she stops, as if something inside her explodes. She turns and grabs my hand.
"What are you doing?" I ask, surprised. We are standing by the bed; her breathing quickens.
Without answering, she starts taking off her clothes. Slowly, demonstratively. As if proving to herself she can control the situation.
"What are you doing?" I repeat, quieter.
"What I like to do with men," she answers, looking me in the eyes. There is no passion there. Only a challenge. Only a mask.