We step out into the street, and the silence of the night engulfs us. Katrin wastes no time: her hands instinctively reach for her phone to call a taxi. I, however, stand still, as if in a trance, not fully aware of what is happening.
Why haven't I asked the simple question if we can walk to the dorm? Why haven't I thought of it? But now, it no longer matters. Everything happens so quickly that my thoughts can't keep up with the events.
My mind is in a daze, my head full of sounds — echoes of those words, glances, that moment, which still hurts like a heavy stone in my chest. Everything feels like it is happening in slow motion, where each second turns into endless agony.
I step aside, trying to pull myself together, to breathe, to calm down, but I can't. My body moves mechanically, and my mind races, trying to understand what has just happened.
I can't take my eyes off Katrin. She stands a little to the side, her face down, as if she is hiding something from those around her. The light dress she wears seems out of place for October — the cold wind slides over her body, but she doesn't even seem to notice. How could she have gone outside dressed like that? In moments like this, everything seems out of place, as if reality itself is pushing her toward it.
I can't stop looking at her face, which is more vulnerable than ever. The wet traces of tears still linger on her cheeks, not fully wiped away. Her makeup has nearly disappeared, and her eyes are filled with pain, exhaustion, and something else that makes my heart ache for her. That look is like a cry for help — she needs something more than just support; she needs salvation from herself, from the world around her, from these endless expectations.
I don't hesitate when I take off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders, trying to give her at least a little warmth, a little safety in this stormy world. I don't know what to say, how to comfort her, but my heart demands action, not words. I hold her tightly, feeling her body react to the embrace — she is so fragile, as if any moment could break her, and I am just a weak attempt to stop the process.
"Don't worry, everything will be okay. He won't touch you again," I try to say these words with confidence, but my voice trembles with the anxiety I can't hide.
I am here, with her, and I want her to feel at least a little of the warmth I can give. She lifts her head, and I see how hard it is for her to breathe. This moment hits me like a blow to the heart — her eyes carry such weight, as if the whole world has fallen onto her shoulders.
"I know... it's just..." she tries to continue, but her voice gradually fades, like the light at the end of a long tunnel. "I called a taxi, but I'm dressed wrong for the season. Look, how stupid I am! I should've thought earlier... You know…"
With each word, her lips tremble, and tears roll down her cheeks like rain that can't be stopped. I press her closer, feeling how her body tenses from everything she has been through. I don't know how to take away this pain, how to comfort her, but I am there, and that is all. I hold her, hugging her the best I can. My lips touch her hair, and I remain silent, hoping my presence will ease her suffering. Sometimes silence is stronger than words, and I want her to feel my support through every touch.
We stand outside for only a short while. No more than five minutes pass before the taxi arrives. Without saying a word, we get into the car. All words, all thoughts stay on the street, and in that moment, we are alone in a world where there is no need to explain anything to each other.
Katrin gives an address I don't recognize. I know the area, but I have never been there.
We sit in the car, hugging each other, and stay silent. This silence isn't oppressive, doesn't become heavy. On the contrary, it is like a safe island in the ocean, where one can find comfort and strength, even if words don't come.
Katrin doesn't cry anymore, and that is already a relief. Every sigh, every movement — everything seems less tense than before, and at least that makes me believe that things aren't as bad as they seem.
We arrive in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of our city. I can't believe my eyes — could it be that Katrin lives here or rents an apartment in such a place? This neighborhood is famous for its high cost, and I increasingly doubt that she can afford such luxury.
Maybe she lives with a friend, or shares an apartment with a neighbor? Among students, it's not uncommon to rent a place together to save money.
When we get out of the car, the girl leads me to one of the entrances, which clearly stands out from the others. The surrounding area is well-maintained, and everything around indicates that this place is not just good, but elite. The building's facade confirms my thoughts: this is the real elite of the city. We enter the building, take the elevator to the fifth floor. Katrin opens the door, and we step into a cozy hallway.
I am in shock: it is a spacious and bright three-room apartment. The atmosphere is cozy, and it is immediately clear that a woman lives here. The space is filled with light, creating a sense of openness and comfort. A faint scent of fresh flowers and vanilla candles lingers in the air.
When my eyes adjust to the light, I notice how carefully each detail has been selected. There is nothing superfluous here — everything, from the painting on the wall to the rug by the sofa, is chosen with such taste that it seems every item is in its place, like part of one big story. The space is filled with harmony: modern style combines with elements reflecting the owner's personal preferences. Modernity intertwines with retro, creating a cozy yet not overcrowded feeling.
I look around, and there is a sense of her personal traces in the room. Books with open pages stand on the shelves, as though her gaze constantly returns to them. On the nightstand next to the sofa, there is a half-closed cosmetics bag with lipstick, making a bright accent on the light wood of the furniture. On the table, there is a cup with tea remnants, as if she has just set it down, absorbed in something important, promising to return.
The things aren't neatly stacked — they are placed with a slight disorder, adding life to the apartment. They don't create chaos; on the contrary, they fill the space with her energy. It seems as though the apartment itself is full of her presence, even when she isn't there. My gaze lingers on the soft cushions on the sofa, ready to welcome anyone who would sit down, while on the open shelf with decor, rare figurines, elegant cups, and framed photographs are visible — she keeps here the bright moments of her life.
Every detail in the apartment reflects her taste, habits, and inner world. I feel that here there is not just comfort, but real life, generously shared with this space. The apartment is an extension of her — a living, unique reflection of her essence. All of this isn't just decor or furniture, but parts of her "self," reminding me that this is her personal space, her little universe, where no one can intrude.
"Do you rent it?" I ask, unable to hold back my surprise.
"No, this is my apartment."
"How does a freshman afford a three-room apartment?" I can't help but ask, stunned by this fact.
"From my dad. When my parents divorced, he gave me the apartment so it wouldn't go to my mom. My mom and I lived in another city, and I decided to use this apartment when I got into college."
"Now it's clear where your fancy place comes from," I say, walking deeper into the apartment and sitting on the large, soft sofa. The situation is strange, but at the same time, it's becoming clearer.
Katrin sits opposite, and a heavy silence hangs between us, filling the room with a tense atmosphere. I feel uncomfortable, but I don't know what to say. She sits calmly, as if she doesn't notice the silence, but I feel the pressure on both of us. The questions I want to ask are stuck in my throat.
Could it be that I know so little about Katrin? And what does she need from me in this expensive and luxurious place?
"Sorry. I ruined everything," these words escape her lips with such heaviness that I can't help but feel how difficult it is for her.
Rebel Girl, this bold and independent girl, is embarrassed, and I can hear it in her low, almost inaudible voice. This confession, full of sincerity and regret, seems like her last stronghold, after which she might hope everything will become easier.
"You didn't ruin anything. I had fun the whole time until some jerk started getting handsy."
"I shouldn't have made you go there with me. I'm just very stubborn, once I decide something, you can't stop me."
"I noticed that."
I smile, replying lightly, as if those words are part of our usual conversation. The scene of her sitting for exams with relentless determination flashes in my memory again, despite all the difficulties, as if the world couldn't stop her when she decided something for herself.
"I'm canceling my wish. And I'm ready to fulfill yours."
These words pierce me, and a strange unease settles in my chest. How can she change her mind so suddenly? How can she abandon her goal, which has been chasing her for two weeks, in just one evening? At the same time, I understand that I can't do that. Honesty is the important thing left between us, and I can't betray myself, my promises. It wouldn't be fair, not just to her, but to myself.
"No, I haven't had enough fun yet. So, I'm waiting for your new ideas tomorrow, Rebel Girl."
"Well, you signed up for it, don't forget," she says with light laughter, and I feel all the tension leaving, as if her laughter is a cure for the heaviness that hangs over us. It's the moment when she returns to her playful side, and I realize that everything has become not as scary as it was before. "Why Rebel Girl?"
"What?" I find myself a bit confused, realizing I've said that nickname without any second thought. It weaves itself into our conversation, as if it's naturally part of our chat.
"Why Rebel Girl? Don't tell me you haven't said that. I've already heard that nickname twice tonight."
I understand that I need to be honest, that there's nothing to hide. She's already noticed everything, and I can't hide anything anymore.
"You know, I've been calling you that for a while, at least in my thoughts. But after I drank, I lost control and started saying it out loud. If you don't like it, I can stop."
"No, I like it. It suits me. But why this word, and not something else? Mischief-maker, hooligan, for example," the girl suggests other options with a light smile on her lips, as if she's curious to see what other nicknames I can come up with.
"Because you're always rebelling against something. You go against the rules, your clothes are often informal for our university, and your makeup—it doesn't really fit the general style. Who else wears all black on the first day of classes and lines their eyes with black eyeliner when it's twenty-five degrees outside?" I'm not judging her when I say this.
No. On the contrary, I admire how she manages to be herself, despite others' judgments for not following the standards. There's something mysterious, wild, and independent about her appearance. I feel that her look isn't just about clothes or makeup, but about an entire philosophy, one that would be too hard to give up. Her freedom from rules, her individuality in every movement and gaze, captivates me, and I can't help but admire it. The courage to be herself, regardless of the circumstances, challenging norms, gives her image not just external appeal but internal strength. This draws me closer to her with each passing moment.
"Really?"
"What are you laughing at?" I can't understand what has made her so amused, but her laughter grows louder, and it's something thrilling, captivating.
I suddenly feel like laughing along with her, even though I don't know why. It's like a lightness I so often lack in my life. Everything she does seems natural and effortless, and I feel less stiff in her presence.
"I actually thought you were a goth at first."
Maybe I really do see her as something different from everyone else, as someone who doesn't fit into the usual frames. And it's people like that, those who aren't afraid to be themselves, who often turn out to be the most interesting and attractive.
"Really? No, no, I just like this color. I'm not a fan of all that goth stuff, you know, the whole 'wandering around strange places and being gloomy' thing. I'm more of a cheerful person, and being a goth definitely wouldn't suit me."
"Well, now I know."
I look into her eyes, and she meets my gaze. It's strangely comfortable, as if we can understand each other without words. She isn't the same as she seemed before; now she's brighter, more energetic, and more joyful. And that's surprisingly pleasant.
"You really are a fun girl who loves to have fun, parties, and also dance, and of course, mischief. Well, what's life without mischief!"
I see her for who she truly is—alive, full of energy, and genuine—and I want to capture that moment in my mind. There's strength in her eyes, not from her appearance, but from the fact that she doesn't hide herself. Without masks or pretense, she's herself, and that's magnetic. I realize that she isn't just a girl, but a personality with whom I want to be, someone who can influence you without you even noticing.
"That's a perfect description of me," Katrіn laughs in agreement. "Alright, let's go to bed. We've got so many different plans ahead."
"Can you at least tell me a bit about them?"
I can't hold back my curiosity. I want to know something, though I understand she won't reveal everything. It's more than just a desire; it's a curiosity about her world, about the secrets she's going to unveil, but only in her time.
"No, if I tell you, the surprise will be ruined. Although, it's going to be next Friday. Before that, we'll visit all the beautiful places in the city, with lots of music and alcohol. Are you ready for such a tour?"
She winks, and a mischievous spark lights up in her eyes. This isn't just an offer; it's like part of some grand plan that I'm now included in, and I feel that it will be something special.
"Well, if you're the guide, then sure."
We both laugh, and that laugh isn't just joyful but also liberating—we've found common ground and are on the same wavelength. Everything around seems lighter, brighter, and I feel that this evening is something special. Not just because of what's happening, but because of how we communicate, how everything feels so simple and natural. It isn't like with others; it's deeper, as if we've known each other for a long time, and it doesn't matter how much time has passed—the feeling that we're sharing not just space but a part of our thoughts and emotions.
Katrіn makes up a bed for me in the guest room, and despite the hustle of the day, I feel at home.