"No, I can't do it like this. I'll write a resignation letter. But today I finish my shift," she declares firmly, without flinching, as if she already accepts her own rules.
There is no fear or hesitation in her voice, only confidence. In her eyes, she is still the girl I once knew, but in this moment I see her true strength.
"Alright," I agree, realizing that acting directly doesn't work.
I am not ready for such sharpness in her response, and it makes me respect her even more. Everything happening now feels strange, tangled—I don't know what will come next, but I understand that this moment will not return.
Rebel Girl walks back to the bucket, her steps quick and confident, but without hesitation I overtake her. Her burning eyes pause on me for a moment, but there is neither surprise nor irritation in them—only a kind of cold acknowledgment of what I do. Taking off my jacket, I step to the bucket and, without looking at her, begin wringing out the rag she hasn't managed to finish because of me. My movement is resolute and almost mechanical, while inside me an irrepressible energy builds, as if with each motion I am searching for something that can return control to me. I want to be close, to support her, to be the one who helps without expecting anything in return. But I also realize that her strength is not infinite, that I must show her I am not just standing aside, but am ready to act.
"What are you doing?" she asks, not understanding my actions. Her voice is full of mild surprise and confusion, as if she hasn't expected me to step into her place instead of just watching from the side. I can't stop, even though she hasn't asked me.
I put the rag on the mop and begin washing the floors. My movements are smooth, almost mechanical, but each one has its own purpose—not just to help, but to show that I am here, close by, even if she hasn't asked for it. It is my way of expressing that, despite her stubbornness, I am ready to be part of what is happening. It is like my gesture of reconciliation, my readiness to stay close even when she refuses to admit her need for support. I want her to know that I can be not only a partner but also a support.
She runs up and places her hand on mine, stopping me. Her touch is unexpected, almost as if she fears all this is too close, too much for her. In her eyes, I see a mix of doubt and anxiety, and in her hands—the determination not to let go of this thread between us.
"Why are you doing this?" Her voice sounds quiet, but there is a hidden pain in it, as if she doesn't know how to react to my silent presence.
"I agreed that you finish your workday today. But I didn't say anything about what you do. So go write your letter, and meanwhile I'll finish your work," I answer, trying to show that my actions don't contradict her decisions. My heart beats a little faster, but I don't slow down, don't let doubt take over me.
I feel how my words echo in her eyes. They soften, but still hide some kind of struggle. Something inside her, as it seems to me, doesn't allow her to simply relax. She tries to hold on to control—the one that is on the verge of being lost, as something important that she could give away, but isn't ready to.
"You're just…" my girl answers indignantly.
Her voice carries not only indignation, but a real storm of emotions. I know she doesn't understand, but something inside me whispers that she will still get me. It doesn't matter what Rebel Girl tells me, I still consider her mine. And yes, even though I already call her a woman, in my mind she remains a girl. That doesn't depend on age—for me, a girl becomes a woman after giving birth, when her whole essence changes.
"What am I?" I want to know her definition of me.
The question slips out almost by itself, quiet but firm, as if I pull out something that has been ripening inside me for a long time, waiting for its moment. I want to understand what she really thinks of me in this moment. Not dutiful words, not a mask—but a genuine, true thought, feeling, essence. Leaving her in that hesitation feels strange, almost cruel, but I sense: if I know what she thinks, I can understand a little better where I myself stand. Who I am—in her eyes? And who I am—in truth?
She hesitates, looking away, as if choosing between truth and politeness. Or maybe between what can be said and what cannot be forgiven.
"Unbearable," she finally says.
The word falls like a stone into water—without splash, but with an echo that spreads along the inner walls. Without anger. Without shouting. Simply—a statement.
"Yes, that's what I am," I answer her with pride.
It isn't arrogance, not bravado. It is something else—acceptance. Recognition of myself as I am. Without attempts to seem softer, better, more "convenient." She may hate me for it, reject me, be angry—and I will understand. But I will not renounce myself. Because only in honesty with myself do I feel alive. Even if it is painful. Even if it is unbearable—not for her, but for me. I can be unbearable, yes. I can be difficult, harsh, stubborn. But I am not fake. I am not playing a role, not trying on someone else's masks. I live on the edge—sharply, sometimes wrongly, but truly.
She looks at me for a moment, as if she wants to say something, but changes her mind. Or maybe she has already said it all.
"Alright, I'm going to the director," she throws over her shoulder and turns away.
Like a blank shot—loud, but without a wound. Only the echo remains. And emptiness. I watch her leave, feeling the heaviness slowly settling in my chest. Not from the words. From the silence between them.
Katrin leaves, and I return to work. Each movement is automatic, but in my head her phrase still echoes—"unbearable." For some reason, it pleases me that she has called me that. I know she hasn't meant anything bad. She just… loves me in her own way. With her own paths, with her own peculiarities, but she loves me. And that is enough to make me feel not alone.
The entire floor needs to be washed. And I do it, despite the fatigue seeping into every corner of my body. My muscles strain, my arms feel heavy, but I don't stop. Each step, each movement of the mop is like a protest, like a desire to finish what has been started, even if it hasn't been part of my plans. The stove, the corners, every surface—all demand attention, and I give it without hesitation. When everything is finally done, I feel a slight dizziness from overexertion, but despite that, there remains a certain satisfaction in my chest from the feeling of duty fulfilled.
When my Rebel Girl comes back, I'm sitting on the windowsill, looking out the window, enjoying a moment of rest. But inside, everything is boiling. My thoughts rush around, giving me no peace. In my head, everything is tangled — a storm of feelings and emotions I can't fully understand or make sense of. Sometimes I want to just scream, to let out all the tension that has piled up in these moments. And sometimes — to stay silent and let time put everything in its place.
I look at her, but in her eyes there is no judgment, only slight surprise. Maybe she didn't expect that I would actually do all this. And still, despite my outward calm, inside me there is a hurricane. And despite all the chaos raging in my soul, I feel that something has changed. Something I'm not ready to speak about yet, but which doesn't leave me.
"How did you manage to clean everything so quickly and so well?" she admires, her voice full of surprise and a hint of delight.
"I can do even more than that, Rebel Girl," I enjoy calling her that again, because it feels like bringing back the closeness and connection we once had. It reminds me that not everything is lost, that somewhere deep down we are still the ones who know each other. "What else needs to be done?" I ask, trying to return to business so I don't sink too deep into moments that feel too significant to talk about right now.
"Since you're finished, let's go to the cafeteria and eat. In an hour, all the lessons on this floor will be over, and we'll just mop the classroom floors, then lock them, and we'll be free."
"All right, let's go. I haven't even had breakfast yet," I reply, getting up and feeling hunger start to take over.
Katrin gives me a sympathetic look, as if she understands I'm tired but still ready to help. I take her hand, and we go down to the first floor where the cafeteria is. I know the way by heart — after running around, I have already seen it.
We sit at a table with food and start eating. Cafeteria food is simple — buckwheat with a cutlet, a bit of salad, and warm tea. But in this moment, it feels like a real feast. After the morning marathon, tiredness and hunger blend into a feeling of almost primal satisfaction. I eat greedily, without thinking about manners, just letting myself be real.
Katrin sits across from me, with a light, almost dreamy smile on her lips, watching me. In her gaze, there is no judgment — only warmth, sincere affection. Seeing her so calm and soft is unusual but pleasant. It seems that in this moment she isn't defending herself, isn't building walls, just letting herself be near.
I finish eating, lean back in my chair, sipping tea with pleasure, and give her a satisfied, slightly teasing look. Katrin laughs — quietly, warmly, as if the laugh is born somewhere deep in her chest — and reaches out her hand to wipe crumbs from my lips.
I catch her hand gently, as if afraid she might get scared and pull away. The touch is almost weightless — like touching the past, like trying by feel to reach something long lost but still alive. But she doesn't pull back. Her palm stays in mine, warm, real. Like a sign. Like forgiveness.
Our eyes meet. In that look, there is too much — the unspoken, the pain, the memories, the timid hope. Everything that hasn't been said for years. Everything kept in silence, in nightly tears, in the stubborn silence of pride. There are broken dreams, unbearable tenderness, and the fear of starting over.
And I say what I feel. No games. Just the truth:
"You've become even more beautiful than you were."
Rebel Girl blushes, as if she didn't expect to hear that from me — especially now, after everything, after the shadow that fell between us. Her eyes sparkle, her cheeks flush with a light blush. For a moment, she becomes that same Katrin I knew — funny, strong, vulnerable, real.
"You've also changed for the better," she replies, embarrassed but with warmth that reaches straight into my heart. There is no falsehood in her voice. Only light, the kind that makes you want to thaw.
"I don't think so," I say more quietly, lowering my gaze.
A pause hangs between us, like a thin web — almost invisible, but fragile and alive.
How could I have changed for the better, if all this time I haven't lived but merely existed? Day after day — as if under the weight of a gray sky, without meaning, without light, without her. Every morning begins with silence that rings in my ears more painfully than a scream. It doesn't let me wake up. It suffocates me. Every night is torture — memories tearing me apart inside, as if someone is slowly twisting a knife in my heart.
That isn't life — that is hell stretched out for years.
Hell — not somewhere out there, not in another world. It is here, inside me. It lives in me, breathes with me. Since Katrin left, I have been trapped in an endless maze of pain, loneliness, and regret. Inside — emptiness, black and bottomless. No warmth, no love remains there. Only ashes. The remains of what once was home.
I haven't become better. I have become worse. I know it. Rougher, colder, more cynical. Everything human in me seems to have burned alive. Only walls and ashes remain. Without her, I have turned into the very kind of man I once despised — indifferent, hardened, lost. I try to hold on, to hide behind masks, to convince myself that it will pass. That the pain will fade. That with time it will dull. But it doesn't pass. It doesn't fade. It doesn't dull.
The years of separation are like a slow dying, when every breath brings pain. When even the sun seems fake. All that time I live in hell — not because someone sent me there, but because I chose to stay where she once was. Because only in that hell I still feel that I love. That I wait.
But even Rebel Girl, even she — never sinks as low as I do. She fights. She lives. She works. She survives. She rises again. And I… I allow myself to drown. And only now, looking into her eyes, do I realize how far I have fallen.