After we leave the club, we walk home in silence. My mind is flooded with thoughts, yet I can't grasp a single one. I'm not angry at Katrin, but her behavior has left me utterly bewildered. Everything that happened there still clings to me, refusing to let go. I had never seen her like that before—shattered, as if some hidden force was boiling inside her, ready to burst free. Her eyes burn with a rage that isn't just anger; it's something primal, uncontrollable, a storm that defies restraint. She beat Marinika as though she were in some other state entirely, and it shook me to my core.
The girl brought it on herself—she didn't understand my hints, and her kiss was entirely unwarranted. But Katrin's reaction surprised me most of all. I had always seen her as fragile, gentle, someone who avoided conflict at all costs. Yet there she was, a force of nature, sweeping everything in her path.
I'm glad Katrin stood up for herself, but unease still gnaws at me. She nearly killed Marinika, and only my intervention stopped her. If I hadn't pulled her away in that moment… The thought won't leave me. Is she not the person I thought she was? What else lies hidden within this girl who seems so familiar yet remains just out of reach? These thoughts swirl in my mind, and I can't find answers to any of them.
I try to blame it on the alcohol, but something doesn't add up. Then I remember her words to that blonde girl: "He's mine." It wasn't just a statement—there was an unyielding resolve in her voice. Did she really mean it? What is she trying to say? Questions buzz in my head, and one in particular haunts me more than the others: she called me "my boy," but it sounded different this time. I can't pinpoint what changed, but I feel it—she's trying to tell me something important. Something I can't yet understand.
I try to explain her behavior as jealousy, but I immediately doubt myself. Katrin has never been open about her feelings. Despite her outward accessibility, she remains an enigma to me. And now, that enigma has only grown more complex.
When we enter the apartment, I try to calm myself, heading for the first aid kit to tend to her wounds. But as I take a step toward the bathroom, I freeze—Katrin stops me, clutching the edge of my shirt. Her gaze is sharp as a knife, piercing straight through me. My chest tightens, and it becomes hard to breathe. What is she trying to say? What is hidden in her eyes?
"Forgive me," her voice nearly breaks under the weight of her tears. "Please, forgive me…"
In that moment, all my doubts and questions vanish. The only thing that matters is her. Broken, remorseful, but still mine. Without thinking, I bend down, carefully lift her, and carry her to the couch. She doesn't resist—instead, she clings to me as though my arms are the only thing keeping her from being swallowed by the darkness that has overtaken her mind.
I sit down, holding her close, feeling her body tremble beneath my touch. Slowly, I run my hand along her back, trying to soothe her, trying to keep her here—with me.
"It's okay. I'm not upset," I whisper softly, gently wiping her tears with my fingers. But they only flow harder, as if she can't stop the flood of pain and regret.
I reach for the table, grab a tissue, and place it in her hand. Katrin silently accepts it, blows her nose, and then takes a deep breath, as though trying to pull herself together.
"I ruined everything… We were having such a good time, and I destroyed it."
I can feel these thoughts eating away at her, and it hurts me almost physically.
"Ruined, but not you," I say, gently tilting her chin up to make her look at me. "That girl brought it on herself. She has no sense of shame or decency. Kissing someone without their consent… She saw I didn't want anything to do with her, but she kept pushing."
Katrin nods silently in agreement, but the pain in her eyes remains. There's more than just despair in her gaze—there's fear, too. Fear that I might see someone else in her, someone I'm not used to seeing.
Slowly, almost timidly, she moves closer to me. Her head rests on my chest, and her fingers clutch the fabric of my shirt, as though she's afraid I might disappear if she lets go.
We sit in silence. The room is quiet, broken only by the sound of her breathing gradually steadying. I can feel the warmth of her body, hear her heartbeat growing slower and calmer, and I know—all she needs is for me to stay close.
Her question comes unexpectedly, shattering the fragile silence we've sunk into.
"What did you think of me when you saw the fight?"
I look at her. Her eyes cling to my face, as if trying to read the answer before I can speak it. Something anxious flickers in her gaze—anticipation, fear, hope.
"I didn't expect to see that side of you."
Katrin frowns, her delicate brows twitching, and she quickly looks away, hiding behind that fragile, invisible barrier.
"Did I disappoint you?"
I slowly raise my hand and gently brush her cheek, catching the moment she flinches ever so slightly at my touch. A fleeting but significant reaction.
"No," I say, making her look into my eyes again. "I just realized there's a lot about you I don't know."
She presses her lips together, as though weighing my words, as though engaged in an invisible internal dialogue. Then she looks away, and I notice her shoulders tremble faintly, as if she's gathering her strength.
Tension hangs in the air. Not frightening, but fragile, like thin ice ready to crack at any moment, revealing something unknown.
Katrin takes a deep breath, summoning her resolve, and suddenly, meeting my gaze, she says:
"I'm not usually like that. But it made me furious when she kissed you so brazenly. You're mine, and you should only kiss me."
My heart skips a beat, then thuds heavily in my chest. She says it so simply, so confidently, that I'm momentarily speechless. All this time, I've been trying to find an explanation for her actions—alcohol, emotions, stress. But now… Now she's laid it all out in one moment.
"Were you jealous?" I ask, studying her face intently, searching for the slightest change in her expression.
Katrin doesn't answer. Instead, she moves closer, wraps her arms around me, buries her face in my chest, and takes a deep breath, as though trying to memorize my scent, to hide in it, to find even a sliver of peace. I feel her breathing steady and slowly run my fingers through her hair, combing through the soft strands. But I never get an answer. What does it mean? No? Or, on the contrary, yes, but she's afraid to admit it? Or maybe she hasn't figured out her own feelings yet? Katrin has always been good at creating mysteries. She'll give one answer but leave behind a dozen new questions. And I don't know if she does it on purpose… or if she's just as confused about what's going on inside her.
I watch her, studying her expression. She sits motionless, as though pondering something important, but her eyes betray a storm of emotions. Her lips still tremble faintly from the tears, and a damp streak remains on her cheek, untouched. Yet, even through this fragility, there's a stubbornness in her gaze—the same stubbornness with which she always faces the world.
"We need to clean your lip and forehead so they don't get infected," I say, standing up from the couch and leaving Katrin where she sits.
She doesn't respond, but she gives a slight nod, as if acknowledging that I'm right.
In the bathroom, I open the cabinet, take out the first aid kit, and pause for a moment, taking a deep breath. I need to pull myself together. Tonight has revealed so many new facets of Katrin that I still can't process them all. She's like a complex painting, where every new stroke only adds to the intricacy of the image.
When I return, she's still sitting on the couch, motionless, as though time has stopped for her. Only her fingers, clutching the edge of her dress, betray her tension.
I sit down beside her, take out the bandages and antiseptic, soak the cloth, and gently touch her lip, starting to clean the edges.
"Ouch… That painted witch, I should've hit her harder," she mutters, wrinkling her nose.
I can't help but smile. It's so like her—to hide her vulnerability behind sharp words.
"You said you don't know me well…" she suddenly speaks up, making me look up.
I continue to carefully dab the cloth, trying not to cause her any more pain. She winces softly now and then but doesn't pull away or interfere.
"Yes, I said that," I reply, focusing on gently tending to her lip and forehead.
"If you want to know me better, you can ask me anything, and I'll answer. Did you forget?"
"I didn't forget."
Silence fills the room—not empty or lifeless, but tense, charged with anticipation. It feels as though this conversation is a thin line between the past and the future. One word, one question—and everything could change.
I finish cleaning her wounds, carefully pack up the first aid kit, and put it away.
"All done," I say, but I don't rush to get up.