I decide to change my behavior. This decision isn't easy for me, but I see no other way. My obsession with Katrin pulls me toward her, but instead of bringing us closer, it only pushes her away and destroys me from within. The realization that I am the one ruining what matters so much to me is unbearable.
I need to learn to control my emotions, not let them overwhelm me like a storm, sweeping everything in its path. I make a decision: to keep my distance. To give her the freedom to be herself, not the version of her I have created in my mind. No more forced conversations, intrusive questions, or actions without her consent. I have to wait — wait for her to take a step toward me. But it is so hard! Every time she passes by, my thoughts scatter like birds in a cage. I catch her gaze, memorize the curves of her silhouette, the spark in her eyes, the nuances of her voice. And with every moment, the struggle within myself grows more difficult.
I start to notice how ridiculous I look from the outside — like a puppy chasing its owner, hoping for an affectionate glance. This realization bruises my ego but becomes an awakening. Katrin doesn't belong to me, and I have no right to act as if she owes me anything in return for my feelings. I am so consumed by her that I have forgotten my own dignity.
She remains a mystery, and that only intensifies my desire to understand her. But can I? She is a person living in her own world of shadows, colors, and secrets — a world I have no right to invade. I understand that by trying to break through, I risk destroying everything: her trust, her peace. And if I don't stop, I will destroy the last chance of an 'us.' That thought terrifies me to my core.
I remind myself: love isn't just the desire to be close but also the ability to respect another person's freedom. Yes, it hurts — it tears your heart apart — but there's no other way. If I don't take a step back, if I don't stop, I will not only lose her but destroy everything. But if I want to keep her in my life, I will have to change not only my behavior but myself.
"Do we need anything else?"
Her voice brings me back to reality. I freeze for a moment, like someone jolted out of a deep sleep. Her eyes, waiting for an answer, refocus my gaze.
"Sorry, I was lost in thought and completely missed what you put in the basket."
"Are you upset?" Her voice drops slightly, as if she is afraid to hear confirmation. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
"No, I'm not upset at all. I just drifted off," I smile, hoping that this simple smile can break down the wall I might have unintentionally built between us.
My smile seems to work — her shoulders relax, and she gives a slight nod, as if allowing herself to let go of her worry.
I lower my gaze to the basket to distract myself. Among the chaotically placed packages, I notice what is missing.
"Did you get the spices?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light, not to shatter the fragile moment of reconciliation.
"No," she shakes her head, looking a little embarrassed, her brow furrowing as if scolding herself for forgetting. "What do you think we should get?"
Her question stirs mixed feelings in me — joy that she values my opinion and slight nervousness because I want to give her the best advice.
"There are spices made specifically for grilling meat. We can check the ingredients on the packages and choose them individually. Then at home, we can mix them to taste."
"I like your idea."
"Thanks," I nod, feeling the spark of interest she shows ignite something inside me. "I just don't like pre-made mixes. They often clash. Some herbs lose their flavor if there's too little of them, while others need to be added carefully. This way, we can control everything ourselves."
"You're right," a note of admiration slips into her voice, making me feel a bit shy but pleased.
"Let's go pick some out."
She gently takes my hand and leads me to the spice section. Her touch is unexpected but warm. Something stirs inside me — as if this is a sign that everything is going right. I haven't pushed her, haven't imposed, and now she has made the move herself. A simple action — her hand wrapping around mine — means more than any words.
We walk to the shelf with spices. The tension that has lingered at the start of our conversation slowly dissipates. Now we stand side by side, talking, choosing — and this simple act feels like a step toward closeness. We carefully pick out spices, discussing which ones will best suit the meat and create the perfect aroma. At some point, our eyes meet, and I see a spark of trust in hers. That feeling warms me.
When the basket is finally filled with everything we need, we head to the checkout and then out of the store.
I carry the bags, feeling their weight — but even more, feeling her presence beside me. She slows her pace to walk in step with me. The evening air is cool, and a quiet calm settles between us.
And in that silence, I feel hope.
"Do you want to handle the meat or the side dish?"
"You do the meat, and I'll do the side dish," she replies without looking at me, but there is a note of care in her voice. "Have you ever fried meat? If not, I can do it, I know how."
I smirk, recalling my culinary experiments, which have long become routine. Everything in my life has always been so mechanical that there is no room for emotions, even in the kitchen.
"At the boarding school, we had special classes where they taught us how to cook. So don't worry, your food is in good hands."
"Were you there for long?"
I feel her caution, like fragility on the edge of silent expectation.
"Since I was eleven," I know this could be a topic I will try to avoid, but I can't dodge it anymore. She is silent, but her gaze speaks more than words.
Her eyes darken for a moment, as if she feels what I have gone through. A brief wave of regret passes across her face but quickly disappears.
"Why did they send you there?"
I freeze, trying to find the right words, but silence only makes it harder. She seems to misunderstand my reaction, and her face tenses a little, as if she is afraid she has upset me.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
I notice her glance shifting away, as if trying to avoid the awkwardness.
"You're not wrong, I'm not against answering such questions. It's just… I don't know how to phrase it so you'll understand."
We continue our way in the elevator, and when the door opens, we get off on the right floor and enter the apartment. I grab the grocery bags, not trying to dwell on what has just happened. The conversation has been tough, and I still feel a slight discomfort from having opened up.
I go to the kitchen and start unpacking the groceries when I feel her presence close by. She approaches and hugs me — it is unexpected but warm. Her arms wrap around me, offering the support I need.
I freeze, not expecting such a gesture, but her embrace relieves the tension that has built up from the conversation. The touch is light, yet there is strength in it, like a protective cocoon. I want to pull away, but I can't, because with her, I feel safe. It seems like every move she makes says — you're not alone, I'm here. I feel lighter, and I realize that her silence and presence mean more to me than anything.
"My parents started fighting, and it led to me locking myself in my room and crying. That's why they sent me there. And then, as I found out, they divorced within a year."
Katrin pulls away, and I instinctively turn toward her. She is standing with her head lowered, and I notice the sadness on her face. These emotions touch me, making me feel my own vulnerability.
"My poor little boy!" Her words are full of sympathy, and I feel her hands wrapping around my neck, pulling me close.
There is nothing unnecessary in her touch, just sincere care that instantly melts all the remaining cold walls inside me.
"I'm so sorry they treated you like that, they had no right," Rebel Girl shares this burden with me, something she can't fully understand but seeks to share.
Releasing me, she steps back, and I feel an emptiness, as if something important has gone. I place my hand on her face, running my palm along her cheek, and begin to gently stroke her. She embraces my hand and closes her eyes, as if absorbing my touch like a life-saving warmth.
"Instead of talking to you, and at first, to each other, they argued in front of you. And by dragging you into their mess, they decided to send you away, out of their sight. That's wrong. I'm so sorry. You must have been so hurt and in pain," her words are quiet, but they pierce my heart. I can see how genuinely she cares about me, about the experience I have gone through.
"And lonely," I can feel all those years of loneliness, struggles, and pain finally surfacing. "But I'm glad that someone like you came into my life, and I'm not lonely anymore."
In her eyes, I see what I might have been searching for my whole life — understanding and warmth. In the silence between us, there is a strength that allows us to understand each other without words. Rebel Girl hugs me again, and with her warmth, the loneliness that has accompanied me for so long begins to fade away. Her presence chases away the shadows in my soul, and with every touch, it feels like my heart is coming back to life. I am no longer alone. In her embrace, I feel happiness — she shares my pain, and in this gesture, there is so much sincerity and care that words aren't needed. Everything I need is right there.
"Do you still talk to them?" Her question is quiet, but I can feel her watching me closely, paying attention to my words.
"Yes, but rarely. More with my mom, less with my dad. My dad sends money, and that's the end of our communication. He has his own business and another family," I don't want to go into details, but she deserves to know. "And my mom… she lives alone, but as she told me, she's in a relationship. She kept in touch with me a little when I was there. Like I said, she sent me packages. We don't talk much. The last time on the phone was two weeks ago, and in person — this past summer." I fall silent, trying not to let my emotions overwhelm me. But the pain behind every word is still very much alive.
The girl listens carefully, her eyes full of sympathy, never leaving me. No judgment, no unnecessary questions — just sharing this moment with me.
"Do you still love them?"
"I don't feel hatred toward them. Living with them at that time was very hard, and I had a tough time getting through it. I decided not to hold the past with me and pretend nothing ever happened."
"Is that easier for you?" She gently touches my hand, and I feel her warmth penetrate me, giving me the strength to keep talking.
"Yes, because there's no one to voice my complaints to. Each of them is stubborn and thinks they were right. And I don't want to get into it because I don't want a close relationship with them," I can't help but feel the disappointment that still remains, despite my attempts to move on from it. "Any more questions, my Rebel Girl?" I finish, giving a slight smirk, trying to hide the tension that remains after the revelations.
She is silent, but in her gaze, I see understanding. I know — my words have touched her. The most important thing is that she is here. In her presence, I can be myself, and that gives me an incredible sense of relief.
Katrin smiles, filling the room with warmth. She always reacts this way when I call her Rebel Girl. That word is special to her, and every time I say it, I see so much light in her smile that everything else loses its significance.
"No. Thank you for sharing this with me," she says, and there is sincerity in her voice that I can't help but feel. "I know it's hard to share your past with someone. And I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" I look at her in surprise, not understanding why she is apologizing. "I don't hold any grudges against you for anything."
"For not being able to tell you my past the way you told me yours."
I cup her face in my hands, carefully but firmly, and establish eye contact. In her eyes, I see the same vulnerability I see in mine, and it makes me feel lighter.
"You will tell me. When you're ready. And I don't care when it will be. I'm ready to wait even ten years."
Her gaze lingers on me, and in it, I see a strange mixture of surprise and admiration.
"Why are you so confident about that?"
"About you telling me?" I repeat, almost as if to affirm my feelings, and add: "I believe in it."
"No, I mean about the ten years," she leans forward slightly, as if looking for answers in my eyes. "Are you sure that you and I will still be talking in ten years?"
I pause for a moment, feeling how her question echoes in my heart. Time is so uncertain, so fragile. "I only have faith. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, let alone such a long period. I just believe."
I step back, giving us a little space. In that moment, I feel a slight tension arise between us again — not negative, but more like something important and significant.
"Now let's start cooking," I say, smiling. "We still need to watch a movie, and dinner hasn't even begun yet."
A flash of surprise appears in her eyes, then she laughs. Her laughter, light and warm, fills the space, and I feel everything that could have separated us melt away. We are together again, and that is enough to move forward.