I have terrible dreams, soaked in icy terror and hopelessness. In these nightmare visions, everything seems distorted and unreal, as if the world around me is dissolving in a whirlwind of pain and fear.
In my dream, there is Ivan, me, and Katrin. The faces of our people are at once an embodiment of intimacy and unimaginable cruelty. Katrin, always graceful and gentle, is stripped of all freedom: her legs are bound by cold chains, like shackles cruelly tightened with an iron grip, and she can't move. The reflection of her eyes, helplessly lowered, and her silent despair cut deeply into my soul, making my heart beat wildly.
I am bound behind my back, and the merciless blows delivered by Ivan and his friends turn my body into a painful battlefield. Each flash of pain, every blow surges through my entire being, leaving scars not only on my body but also on my soul. A sense of helplessness overwhelms me, as if time no longer exists, and the cries of inner suffering dissolve into the cold darkness of the night.
Waking up, I feel cold sweat running down my forehead, and my heart pounding in a frantic rhythm reminds me that it was all just a nightmare. However, the immediate contrast of reality brings me comfort: I realize I am at home, in the cozy safety of my beloved's warm bed. This awakening feels like salvation, giving me a chance to restore balance after the whirlwind of nighttime suffering, and I quietly lean back on the pillow, trying to find calm again.
Then, slowly, fragments of that week resurface in my memory, like a long-forgotten melody suddenly returning to remind me of moments I have lived through. I remember how we play the question game, how the lighthearted game turns into a chain of revelations. Vivid images flash before me: Katrin, with an honest smile and sparks in her eyes, taking a selfie, lifting her clothes just enough to show me—a small but significant symbol of her trust and courage.
Our very first time, filled with tenderness and shy excitement, contrasts sharply with the cruelty of the dream, showing how thin the line is between pain and joy. The memories of how we dance the lambada, where every movement is filled with passion and freedom, give me a sense of flight, even despite the darkness of the nightmare.
And then comes that morning when the gentle rays of dawn enter the shower, illuminating the space with warm light, and that intimate, almost sacred act of love in the shower, about which my little girl quietly speaks, as if it were a sign that even after the darkest moments, light always returns. Feelings overwhelm me—tenderness, gratitude, and quiet sorrow for the losses she has suffered during this time.
Rebel Girl has endured so much over these days—an invisible pain that leaves deep marks on her soul. And all this time, I remain in the dark, remembering nothing, while she, like a guardian angel, experiences terrifying moments alone, trying to preserve the spark of life that we both so desperately seek. Of course, she says nothing, to avoid putting me in danger, hiding her wounds behind a mask of calm and strength.
One day, when we are alone, she gently and resolutely supports me—standing beside me, like a confident lighthouse in an ocean of despair. But sometimes there are breakdowns: emotional outbursts, when she enters the shower, and her hysteria echoes off the concrete walls, betraying the depth of pain she has been forced to hide.
This complex kaleidoscope of experiences leaves a mark on me, reminding me that love and fear, pain and joy, are so tightly intertwined in our lives, creating a multi-layered fabric of memories that we cannot escape and must accept as part of ourselves.
My girl misses me. This is felt not only in her words but in every movement, every gesture, in the way she silently slides her gaze across my face, as if hoping to find something familiar, lost, within it. It is most clearly seen in her eyes—deep within them, a mute longing hides, so strong, so burning, that it takes my breath away. When she looks at me, the world seems to freeze, and all that remains is the shadow of pain in her gaze.
During the time we spend in the hospital, something between us seems to break. We become distant, as though we are separated by an invisible glass wall: me on one side, her on the other, and neither of us knows how to find our way back.
The problem is not with me. It is that after everything we have been through, after all the pain she has had to endure alone, she cannot bear to see me as I am: calm, forgetful, unaware of the depth of the horror she has gone through. This discrepancy kills her. The thought that I, her beloved, have forgotten everything that has been between us.
She simply wants me back. The real me. The one with whom she shared tears, laughter, and fear. The one who walked through hell with her and stayed alive. She needs not just my body, not just my presence—she needs a heart capable of remembering. A soul capable of responding.
But she doesn't know how to bring me back. And I, feeling how she has changed, how she has built up her defenses, how she has constructed a fortress inside herself, cannot find a way to truly touch her again. We are close, but we feel like strangers.
My girl wants to give me a chance. She tries. Patiently and quietly. But between the me before that week and the me during that week, there is an invisible chasm. And it is about trust. She trusts me… the person I was back then. The one who was with her during the most terrifying moments, who held her hand when the world was collapsing. And I—I have become the one who forgot it all. The one who seems to have returned from oblivion, erasing everything that has become so important to her.
But now… Now, when my memory has returned, when every scene from that week has become a part of me—I feel again how warmth is born in my chest. Like a lost ship finally seeing the lighthouse. Now, I can become whole with her again. I can be the one she can trust completely. The one who was, and is, by her side. The one who not only remembers—but also feels. And I am ready. Ready to go to her. Ready to hold her hand again, as if it were the only thing that matters in this world.
I get out of bed and head to the bathroom—I need to wash away the traces of the heavy sleep, that sticky feeling left by the night. My whole body seems covered with an invisible shroud of anxiety, and going to her in this state seems almost sacrilegious. I want to be with her not just physically, but pure, alive, real.
The warm water runs down my skin, returning the sensation of reality and clarity. With each passing moment, my soul calms. I take a deep breath, briefly closing my eyes, and allow myself to feel the moment—here and now. I am alive. She is here. Everything we've been through—we've endured it. And we stand strong.
When I step out of the shower and approach the bed, my heart momentarily stops at the sight before me. Katrin lies on her stomach, wrapped in the soft light of the morning sun. Her naked body seems as though painted by an artist's brush: the gentle curves of her back, the bend of her waist, the rhythm of her breath… She is so beautiful that my breath catches.
I lie down beside her, gently running my hand along her thigh, her back, her soft, round bottom—not with lust, but with infinite tenderness, as though touching the very essence of my love for her. She doesn't wake, only shifts slightly, maintaining that serene peace I long to protect for the rest of my life.
I get up, briefly leaving her to get a condom. When I return, I lie down beside her again and begin kissing her shoulders—slowly, carefully, with the tenderness that arises when you rediscover someone you almost lost forever.
Carefully, almost reverently, I enter her. Her body responds with a soft movement; she doesn't wake, but she feels me. I move her leg to help her settle more comfortably and begin to move—slowly, in the rhythm where heartbeats and breath merge into one.
Katrin moans softly, still caught between sleep and reality. These sounds are not just a physical response—they hold relief, trust, unity. She allows me to be there. Allows me to feel her, as before, without fear, without pain—only us, only the present.
I don't hold myself back, and I don't hold her back. This isn't just passion. This is a way to reconnect—souls, bodies, hearts. What was lost between us is now alive in every touch, every movement. We are one again.
"Did you miss me?" I whisper in her ear, leaning toward her with a gentle smile.
In response, my beloved merely moans my name—quietly, hoarsely, as though in that sound lies all her longing accumulated from the long, painful days of separation.
I stroke her body, feeling her skin tremble under my hand. My palm slides to her chest, and, holding her close, I continue to enter her body with new, almost frantic speed. This is not just a physical act—it is as if we are trying to make up for everything we have lost.
We don't last long. My body, still recovering from pain and bruises, quickly grows tired. But that time is enough—to feel the closeness, the relief, and that long-awaited flash of pleasure that crashes over us in a dizzying wave.
Lying next to her, I slowly run my hand along her bare back, tenderly tracing every line of her body, as if trying to learn her again.
"Are you getting excited?" Rebel Girl asks, lifting her head slightly, with a soft smile, more question than reproach in her expression.
"Not exactly," I answer honestly, my voice sounding deep, almost thoughtful.
She turns to face me, her eyes looking directly into mine, full of confusion and worry.
"Then what was that? Yesterday you were different…" A barely perceptible note of fear slips into her voice. She feels something has changed and searches for an answer in my gaze.
I run my fingers across her cheek, as if trying to wipe away the shadow of doubt, and, leaning in, kiss her gently on the lips.
"I remembered everything," I whisper, almost unaware of what these words might lead to.
Her body tenses. She turns away silently, lying on her back to face me. In the silence that falls between us, there is everything: fear, pain, perhaps even anger… but above all, confusion.
I watch her hair spread across the pillow and feel my heart tighten. I come back. But now the question remains—what about her? Can she return to me? Or is everything between us left in that week she spent with me… as someone else?