My poor girl finally falls asleep. Her breathing becomes even, soft, almost imperceptible—like the rustling of leaves outside the window on a quiet, cool night. I look at her, at that delicate face, tired from tears, twisted by the pain that is too heavy a burden for such a young soul. Her eyelids tremble—as if even in her sleep, she is fighting the shadows hiding beneath her lashes. But now, finally, her face looks peaceful. Almost serene. Almost... but not entirely. I notice how the corner of her lips twitches, as if the last spark of anxiety still lingers within her, not allowing her to completely dissolve into rest.
I carefully, almost bear-like, get out of bed, trying not to disturb her peace. My feet silently touch the floor, and I, holding my breath, slip out of the room like a thief sneaking away from memories.
Something aches in my chest. It isn't physical pain—no. It is something deeper. A blind, uncontrollable longing gnawing from the inside, like a worm in the heart of wood. I want to cry—loudly, desperately, sobbing like a child when the whole world feels unfair, vast, monstrous. I can almost hear that cry breaking free, stuck in my throat, crashing against my teeth, but I hold myself back. Because I have no right to weakness. Someone has to keep us both afloat when the storm of life tries to drown us.
"I need to clear my head…" flickers in my mind, like a lifesaving thought, like the straw a drowning person grabs onto. Maybe I'll go to the store. Just go out, walk around, breathe in the cool air, feel that I'm alive. Buy ice cream. That damn ice cream, which I never particularly like, but which has become a symbol of something bigger—something real, human, kind. I agreed to it back then only because of her—because of my little Rebel and her strange, painfully sweet whims. Back then, I wanted to make her happy, even if just a little. Now, I want to splash a bit of joy on her broken heart.
I pull on my jacket, put on my shoes—movements automatic, as if my body acts separately from my soul. I step into the cool, slightly damp evening—the air smells of asphalt, the tired end of autumn, and something strangely familiar. I quickly reach the store. The light of the street lamps seems dim, like the emotions in my heart. The people around are shadows, the background of my inner world, where a storm is boiling, but on my face—still cold calmness.
I return with a bag in my hand and a weight in my soul. That weight isn't in grams, but in the thoughts pressing on my shoulders, tightening my throat. Like a stone on my chest, like an invisible slab. I go inside and straight to the bedroom. To check. To make sure. To see that she is still here, beside me. The little one is still asleep, curled up like a kitten in the rain. So fragile… defenseless… and yet in her body—the strength of a whole world that survives despite everything.
In the kitchen, I make myself a strong coffee—too strong, bitter, almost like poison. But it matches my mood. The bitterness of the drink settles on my tongue like the imprint of thoughts in my head. I sit at the table, staring at a spot, trying to calm the chaos inside. Everything is spinning—fragments of phrases, memories, scenes from the recent past. Us. Our path. The war we wage with ourselves, with the world, with each other. Too long. Too painful. We can't live any longer in this endless drama. Enough. We deserve happiness. Not great, not cinematic. Simple. Real. A hot cup of tea in the silence. Laughter in the bedroom. Sleep without tears. Love—not with burns, but with embraces.
And then—a soft thud. Hesitant. Then another. A moment later, Katrin runs into the kitchen—sleepy, disheveled, in pajamas, but her eyes already brimming with worry. So small, and yet—my universe.
"Max?.." her voice trembles, like the thinnest crystal thread, ready to snap at the slightest breath. It is filled not only with fear but also with that piercing loneliness you feel when you wake up in the dark, not sensing anyone nearby, no breath, no warmth, no certainty about tomorrow.
I jump up, my heart leaping from its place as if responding immediately to her call, to that strained, almost childlike note in her voice. I rush to her—instinctively, without thought, without a plan, like a drowning man to the shore, like a soldier returning home after a long war. I hug her as if I want to merge with her, become one whole, so she will never, ever feel abandoned again. I hold her as one holds not just a loved one—as one holds meaning, as one holds onto hope that has been slipping through the fingers for far too long.
"I'm here, my dear. It's okay," I whisper, holding her tighter, burying my face in her neck, where it still smells of sleep, her skin, the faint scent of shampoo, and something… something indescribably familiar. The scent of life. The scent of "home," which no longer exists, but lives in her.
"I woke up and… you weren't here…" her words sound almost like an admission of weakness, and she clings to me with such desperate force, as if afraid that if she loosens her grip, I will disappear, like a ghost. As if I—her last anchor, her last thread, the one she holds onto, hanging over the abyss.
"I just decided to buy you a gift," I press my forehead to her temple, breathing her in like one breathes after a long dive. I hope she doesn't notice how my hands betray me and tremble.
"I don't need gifts. You're the best gift for me," her voice quivers, flutters, like a string stretched between hearts. And in that quiver is tenderness, uncertainty, warm longing, and such clear, fragile love that it hurts.
"You guessed it," I smile with difficulty, knowing I can't say everything. Behind this "gift" is more—an attempt to silence the guilt within me, panic from her loneliness, and a desire to at least somehow compensate for everything she has been through.
"Do you want to give me… yourself?"
"Yes," I exhale. Quietly. Almost shyly. Because who am I now to be a gift? Who am I after everything?
I slowly open the fridge, almost ceremoniously, as if behind the door is not food but the key to a new life. And I pull out a tub of ice cream. A silly gesture. Childish. But in it is an attempt to give her something simple. Safe. Innocent. As if this ice cream can erase the horrors of the past days.
"Ice cream!" she laughs, and that laughter is like a gulp of fresh water. Clear, real, so alive that I freeze for a moment—as if time has stopped. The girl who once bursts into my life with sparks in her eyes and velvet in her voice is back. The one I once fall for, blindly and forever.
"Yes. And in the evening… we'll definitely make use of it. To the fullest," I wink, trying to bring back the playfulness, the flirtation, the ease that has been taken from us. And in my chest—something truly thaws. As if the ice that has been freezing everything inside slowly begins to crack.
For a moment, everything around us ceases to matter — the worries, the nightmares, the scars. There is only us. In this kitchen, smelling of coffee, hope, and the beginning of a new chapter.
Katrin says nothing, just hugs me. But the way she does it... it is as if there is a prayer in her embrace. As if she is saying with that gesture, "I believe. I'm here. I'm with you, no matter what."
Her hands tremble. Yet in that trembling, there is more strength than in the loudest of vows.
"Now let's eat, you're all skin and bones," I say softly, gently touching her cheekbones that have become too sharp.
A physical pang shoots through me. My heart jerks painfully. I turn away so she won't see the sudden flash of worry on my face and start rummaging through the bag.
The girl watches me closely, as if searching for something behind every move I make. And then:
"Don't you want to ask me anything?" she says suddenly.
I turn, alert, feeling the tension hanging in the air.
"No... I have no questions. Should I?"
"It's just... you missed a lot..." her voice grows quieter, almost crumbling into silence. She looks away, as if the truth she can't say aloud is hiding somewhere in that corner.
"What happened after I blacked out?"
Silence falls between us, like sudden snow landing on hot stone. She doesn't answer right away — and in that pause, there is more than just hesitation.
She is silent. Several long, taut, almost painful seconds. As if the words are stuck in her throat, sharp and rough, like shards of glass, and she is searching for ones that won't hurt — neither me nor herself.
Her lips tremble, but finally, a voice is born:
"After checking that you were still alive… they gave us back our things. Freed us... and simply left."
Her voice is soft, almost detached, as if she still can't believe what she is saying.
"You know the rest."
I close my eyes for a moment. Through clenched teeth, I force out:
"They... didn't touch you?"
The words come out hoarse, as if I have to push them out with all my strength.
I clench my fists; my nails dig into my palms. Inside, everything tightens into an icy knot.
Would I have to hear the very thing I fear the most?
Rebel Girl shakes her head. Slowly, with dignity, with a strangely light sadness.
"No," she says, looking me straight in the eyes. "They didn't even lay a finger on me. They unlocked the shackles... and simply left."
I exhale sharply, hoarsely, as if only now remembering how to breathe. As if the concrete slab that had been crushing my chest finally crumbles into dust.
"I'm glad..." I whisper. "So glad, because I... I was going insane with worry."
Her eyes shine softly, like a star's reflection on calm water.
"Don't worry. It's all behind us now," she says, as if soothing the scars. "Let's talk about something good instead. Like... ice cream."
She tries to smile. Weakly, but there is life in that weakness, a spark. And that spark catches fire. Her lips twitch at the corners, and the world grows just a little warmer.
"What kind did you get?"
"Vanilla and chocolate," I say, as if confessing a secret.
"Both are my favorites..." Rebel Girl slowly, lazily runs her tongue over her lip, and in that motion, there is so much temptation, so much familiar mischief, that it takes my breath away.
She looks at me like no one else ever has — as if she finds everything she has ever been looking for in my eyes.
"And I have many favorite flavors..." I step closer. My heart pounds like crazy. I reach out, touch her lips, gently, almost reverently, and linger there. My fingers tremble.
"For example... the taste when I kiss you."
Katrin shivers. Not from fear. It is something else. Something primal, deep. A desire that needs no justification. A passion that can't be hidden.
"Or the taste... when I feel your skin on my tongue."
Her eyes flare. I see the fire ignite inside her — hot, unstoppable. It bursts out like the breath of a volcano.
"I can't wait until evening..." her voice is almost a whisper now, fragile, barely audible, like the trembling of a candle's flame before a gust of wind.
"Let's start right now..."
There is no trace of teasing in her voice. Only naked thirst. Only honesty.
"You can't go long without me, can you?"
I can feel how every millimeter of space between us is stretched tight, like a bowstring. One word — and it would snap.
"Yes," she says. Short. But in that "yes" there is everything: desperation, love, longing, devotion, madness.
"Without you... I'm just an empty shell."
I pull her close, feeling how every breath of hers melts into mine.
How time slows down.
How the world disappears — and only she remains. Only her warmth. Her breath. Her essence.
I pause at the threshold of the bedroom. My heart pounds wildly. Everything is like before, yet completely different.
We have changed.
"Then tell me..." I whisper, "... that you truly want us. Not just the closeness. Us. Seriously. Forever. No matter what."
Silence hangs between us. Deep. Alive. Expectant.
Then she looks at me. Looks in a way no one ever has.
And I know: this moment is real. Everything else... can wait.
Katrin looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. And there is no hesitation in her gaze. Only love. Deep. True.
But I know she won't answer out loud.
Not in words. Not even in gestures.
I see it only in her eyes — dark, deep, like an autumn lake at sunset.
There, in their silent reflection, is all the truth — the fear, the hope, and maybe... the very same love I am afraid to ask about.
"You don't want me?" she asks.
"When have I ever not wanted you?" I reply with a warm, almost tender smile to her unexpected question.
There is a mix of surprise and light irony in my voice, but only tenderness in my eyes.
She blushes, looks away, hiding her smile, as if she wants to conceal how much those words mean to her.
"We just forgot the ice cream," I add, as if shifting back to simpler things, trying to lighten the mood.
"By the way, it's frozen stiff, like it just came out of the permafrost.
We might need to warm it up a little first — or the spoon might just bounce right off it."
I speak lightly, almost playfully, but the air still carries that warm, aching note — something fragile and fleeting, like the evening sun slipping below the horizon, leaving behind only soft light and long, lingering glances.