I don't want to leave my Rebel alone—teeth-grindingly so. It is an almost painful feeling—as if a part of me is tearing to stay close, to protect her, to keep her from feeling emptiness without me. That's why I arrange a day and night of love for her, so that after my caresses she feels calm, relaxed, sensing my warmth and care even when I'm not there. But inside, anxiety gnaws at me, a restless worry like a tiny pebble in my shoe—what if something doesn't go according to plan? After all, Katrin is unpredictable by nature, a girl with a storm of emotions inside that can't always be tamed by words or promises.
We are driving. Viktor picks me up at three in the morning from my mom's house. It is quiet and a little cold, but I try not to notice the trembling in my hands and heart. Then we drive until six in the morning to the city where we have to buy supplies. Our travel times are always unpredictable, like a game of nerves, so we try to leave early to be there at least an hour in advance. We travel to different cities, and the distances vary—sometimes it feels like the road will never end, and every minute stretches like rubber.
"You're nervous," Viktor notices, a slight mockery in his voice, but I understand he genuinely tries to understand me.
"It's about Katrin. I don't want to part with her. Or rather, she's very nervous about it," I explain, trying to hide the tremor in my voice and not show weakness. Each word resonates inside like a tuning fork, setting my soul on an anxious wave.
"It's nothing. A couple of trips like this and she'll get used to it. Vera didn't want me traveling so far at first either. Now, when I come back, she yells at me for returning too quickly before she finishes cleaning," Viktor laughs, trying to calm me, but I can see the experience and understanding behind his laughter.
"You're right," I say, a little lie, because I still don't believe she will be calm in six months or a year when I go with him again. Deep down, anxiety doesn't leave me, clinging to my thoughts, refusing to let me rest. I'm afraid our connection might weaken, that she will be alone in the moments I can't be there, and I will be powerless to change it.
I look out the window and think of my beloved. Outside, the night lights of scattered villages stretch like stardust spilled across the ground, and the darkening highways slide softly past, dissolving into the glass like forgotten memories. Everything reflects on the cold window surface, merging with my thoughts—endless, anxious, crashing against the boundaries of consciousness. Inside, it is restless, as if somewhere at the very edge of my soul, in its most vulnerable part, a flame smolders—quiet, unextinguishable, unresting. It doesn't burn—it smokes. It perfumes my thoughts, makes my breath slightly heavier.
She… my Katrin… still torments herself with meaningless, yet poisonous thoughts. Foolishness, as I call it, but for her, it is more than mere suspicion. She believes—truly believes—that I am still taking revenge on her, as if intentionally causing pain. And that… that hurts. Deeper than I allow myself to admit. Deeper than I expected.
Yes, I'm guilty. I gave her reasons. I don't run from responsibility, don't bury my head in the sand. I know I left a crack in her heart. But hearing that she believes—truly believes—that I could be with her and someone else at the same time… it is beyond bearing. It is like a slap—sharp, cold, without warning. Painful, unfair… yet perhaps I really deserve it.
The thought that such a reality has formed in her mind doesn't leave me. She has dug her claws of doubt into me and holds on until no living hope remains inside. Could she really think so lowly of me? Could her once bright, warm feelings now be veiled in a gray shroud of suspicion, mistrust, and pain? I am afraid to admit it, but yes—I drive her to this. With my actions, my silence, my indecision.
And that realization strikes me like a torrential rain tearing off a roof. Not because she reproaches me, but because I see what lies behind her words: fear—for herself, for us, for the love we build; resentment—for all I destroy; distrust—for not keeping the bridges she could walk on to reach me. And all of it—every cursed piece—is born from me.
Something has to change. Not just something—everything. Not for my own comfort. Not to regain peaceful sleep. But for her. For us. For those moments when we are truly happy. Of course, it can't be fixed in one day. Such wounds don't heal with apologies. They require time, patience, and, most importantly, action.
But I know—know with all my heart—that I can. Not to erase memory, not to make her forget—no. I want to replace darkness with light. To wash away the dirt—not by force, but with love. Step by step, day by day. Action by action. I want my deeds to become an anchor, keeping her in the present, not in memories. To be a shield, a barrier between her and her pain.
My mood begins to change. Somewhere deep, a faint flame of hope flickers. My spirits lift slightly, as if a sunrise peeks from behind the clouds. But… the premonition remains. It hasn't gone anywhere. It lingers inside me, hidden, like a shadow in the corner of a warm room—unnoticed, but not leaving.
We finally arrive. How exactly—I don't remember. The journey blurs into fatigue. My eyes close on their own, thoughts tangled. I slept through almost the entire way. All that remains is to trust Viktor. Grandpa Vi. Our constant companion. He always prepares in advance, rests during the day so that at night he becomes not just a driver, but a guardian of the road. He is like a rock—solid, reliable, focused.
In my sleep, my girls came to me. They often do. Like a reminder. Like the essence of what I hold onto in this world. Once, Katrin rarely appeared in my dreams. And when she did—she ran. Slipped away like a shadow. I chased her through streets, forests, across bridges of time. But I couldn't catch her. She was always a little ahead, a little faster, a little further from my heart.
But now… now everything is different. Now she is near. We are together in dreams and in reality. These dreams… they are different. Before, they were heavy, like stones in the chest. I wake with a lump in my throat and emptiness nothing can fill. But now—they become light. Soft. Warmth lingers even after waking, like a blanket covering the soul.
These are not just dreams. They are reflections. Reflections of my essence. My desire, love, and faith. It is me—real, without masks, without fear. With an open heart, hope, and love.
We walk together—me, Katrin, and our daughter. We laugh. We build pillow castles, shape sand cakes on the beach. And everything around us feels so alive, warm, real—as if the pain doesn't exist, as if the separation never happened, as if the silence between us isn't there.
"Maxim, we've arrived. In half an hour we'll go to the market, so wake up, my friend," Viktor wakes me with a quiet but firm voice, slightly opening the car door. His voice, like a thin but steady ray of light, cuts through the thick fog of sleep, pulling me out of warm, almost magical dreams and returning me to the cold reality of the morning rush, where the air still smells of unspoken words, and the sky is only beginning to awaken.
"Alright, Vi," I purr, stretching lazily like a cat, not yet deciding whether it's worth leaving my cozy shelter.
Every movement comes with effort—my muscles feel filled with lead, and fatigue clings to my body like moisture on glass after a night of rain. My eyelids rise slowly, reluctantly, but inside, a familiar sensation begins to blossom—anticipation: for morning coffee, the road, work, and meetings. It is like a ritual—unnoticed, but one that starts the internal engine of the day.
"Here, take this, coffee," the man hands me a cup, from which steam rises, dancing in the air like a small comfort in this chilly, sleepy world. The aroma is rich, sharp, almost familiar. The hot drink in my hands is more than coffee—it is a promise: the day will start a little easier if we begin it together.
"Thanks," I say, looking at him with quiet, silent gratitude.
This small gesture is more than just care—it is something bigger. It is a habit, earned through shared trips, sleepless mornings, and hundreds of conversations. It is an expression of friendship, a silent understanding that needs no words. He knows exactly what I need at that moment—and gives it without waiting for a request.
"You're welcome. Don't sit for too long; half an hour will fly by, and I'll need you today," he reminds me softly, but with character, squinting slightly and smiling.
I take a sip. Hot, strong—just the way I like it. Neither bitter nor overly sweet, but with that perfect golden balance. Viktor, through years of acquaintance, knows my tastes down to the smallest details—how much sugar, which blend, even which cup keeps it warm longer. These little things—seemingly insignificant to others—appear trivial only at first glance. It is from such threads that true understanding between people is woven.
I also know how he likes his hot dog, which toppings, how he drinks tea, and what little things annoy him. Over time, we become more than colleagues. We are friends. True friends. Those who can sit in a car for hours in silence—and still hear each other. Who know when to offer a word of support and when to just sit beside each other and say nothing.
He often consults me on business matters, especially about parts—what to buy, where it is more reliable, how to avoid mistakes. And I help. Not out of obligation, not for profit—but because this is our shared path. We both walk it, with the same goal, the same fatigue, and the same dream.