I move closer to her, as if drawn by an unknown gravity, one beyond my control. I hug her—gently but firmly, conveying with my whole body: "I'm here. I'm with you. I won't leave." Despite her tense, almost hostile silence, despite how she shrinks away, as though my touch is fire burning her skin, Katrin freezes in my arms as if even her breath has become heavy and irregular, as though every movement from me is a reminder, a reproach, a pain.
But I don't let go. I can't. Not now, not at this moment when the darkness between us is becoming too thick. Not when I feel her soul trembling beneath the fragile shell of indifference.
"What's wrong?" I ask, trying to make my voice soft, almost a whisper, as though I fear startling her fragile, fluttering heart. I want her to believe: I'm not an enemy. Not a judge. Not a stranger.
"Nothing," she replies shortly.
Abruptly. Coldly, like a razor blade against skin. Her voice—a shield, a familiar game of "everything's fine." But I know. I feel it. This falseness can't be hidden from someone who lives inside her. As if I haven't heard the tremor in her voice. As if I don't feel how her heart is beating too fast. As if she truly believes she can hide from me behind this thin mask.
"You know, I can feel you…" I whisper, my lips almost touching her ear, "and you know it too. What's wrong, Katrin?"
She turns her gaze away. And in that gaze, everything is there: fear, pain, guilt. And also—a desperate attempt to escape from her own feelings. To run. Not to someone. From herself.
"Why are you insisting? I told you—nothing!" she snaps, jerking away sharply, like an animal caught in a trap, wanting to break free, to run, to disappear. But I don't let go. I hold on. Not with a vice-like grip—no. But like an anchor holds a ship in a storm. Securely. Quietly. Calmly. Silently saying: "You won't sink. I'm here."
"Let go," she says with a sob, but not in anger—in exhaustion, as though on the edge. In that "let go," there is more of a plea than a demand. As if she doesn't even know what she truly wants.
I remain still. Not flinching an inch. Only gently running my warm hand through her hair, slowly, softly.
"What have you been imagining again, huh?" I ask with a light smile, trying to make my voice sound playful, but inside… inside everything twists, like a rag in a fist. "Come on, tell me, my Rebel…"
Silence. Thick, almost viscous, like fog at dawn. She doesn't look at me. Her lips tremble, like a child on the verge of crying, but stubbornly holding back. I see it: a battle rages inside her. One voice screams: "Say it! Get it off your chest!" The other whispers: "Stay silent. Don't. He'll leave."
"You shouldn't be holding me…" she exhales, barely audible, and I have to lean in closer to catch these words, which seem to slip out of her soul, barely born.
"Why?"
She doesn't respond for a long time. I feel how her breath falters, how her chest tightens, as though in pain. As though each word is a knife she plunges into herself.
"Because you should hate me…" she whispers bitterly, striking me like a needle to the heart. "Say I'm nobody to you. That I'm nothing. Throw me out of your life like a filthy kitten that pooped in your slippers…"
Katrin sniffs. One sniff, and it is as though everything inside her shatters. Her body trembles, and I hear her gasp for air, struggling not to burst into tears right in my arms. But it is already too late. A wave overwhelms her. Tears—invisible, bitter—begin to flow down her cheeks. I feel them, even as she tries to hide them.
And in that moment, I feel something tear inside me. My heart breaks, as though someone rips it from my chest. Not because of her words. But because of how she says them. With such desperation. With such self-destruction.
I start kissing her shoulder—gently, almost reverently, as if I want to heal every crack, every wound she inflicts upon herself. With words. With silence. With the past.
"First…" I say quietly, continuing to stroke her back, "you didn't poop in my slippers."
Rebel Girl flinches. And suddenly—she sniffs, and in the background—is a soft, almost uncertain laugh. As if a little ray of light breaks through the thick clouds. I feel how her body, barely noticeably, but still, relaxes in my arms.
"Second, you're my kitten. Mine. Not some filthy little kitten. And third…"
I pause for a moment. I lift her face so our eyes meet. In her eyes—a storm. Lightning. A whole sea of pain and unsaid words.
"Why should I hate you?" I ask, looking into the very depths of her soul, where she hides all the scariest things.
"Because because of me, you were almost killed…" she whispers, and this time, there is no restraint, no masks. Just the truth. Bitter, searing, torn from the depths of her soul. Tears, like silver streams, run down her cheeks, and nothing can stop them now. Neither pride nor fear.
I immediately cup her face in my hands, as if I want to hold her not just physically, but with my soul—to keep her from hiding again, from drowning in guilt, from dissolving in the shadow of her own self-flagellation. My fingers gently touch her skin, so warm, trembling, as though her heart beats right beneath the pads of my hands. I look into her eyes—red, wet, wide open in this sincere confession, like open windows to her soul, shattered from the inside by the storm of pain.
"It's not your fault, do you hear me?" I say softly, but with the kind of strength that shakes silence. In every word—an anchor. In every intonation—a vow. "You didn't do this. You didn't raise your hand against me. It was other people. Other monsters. And you're not the one to carry their guilt."
She squeezes her eyes shut, and I understand that she wants to look away again. To run. To hide. But I don't let her. I hold her gaze, just like I hold her—firmly, but not forcefully. Confidently. So that she knows: I'm here, and I'm not afraid of her pain.
"And as for hatred…" I continue, my voice trembling, as though I don't expect how much love remains inside after everything, "it's the opposite for me."
"How is that…?" she whispers, and in her voice, there is fear.
Not before me—before hope. Before the fact that I haven't turned away. That I am still here. As if part of her has already said goodbye to that, and now can't believe her eyes.
"After this…" I say softly, "I love you even more."
It is as if something crashes on her face—a boulder, a slab, the weight she has been carrying for so long. She closes her eyes, and at that moment, I see it: all her fear crumbles into ashes. She allows herself to be weak. Fragile. Real. Mine. Not a legend. Not a mask. Not the "girl who can handle it." Just herself.
"But why…?" Katrin exhales. "I couldn't do anything."
Her voice is like torn fabric, like the quiet moan of a string upon which a stone has been dropped. Almost inaudible, almost lifeless. But painfully real.
"You are so strong," I gaze into her eyes, where the entire universe reflects—broken, tired, but still burning. "Despite everything, you hold on. You don't break. And that's what keeps me going. I'm proud of you, you hear me? The fact that you called Grandpa Vi, convinced him to take us, negotiated with the hospital so we wouldn't have problems… That is really brave. And in the hospital—your care, your quiet, almost unnoticed kindness… Even if I don't remember what happened before—I can feel it. I feel you. And it makes me feel calm."
"Do you really think so?" she asks, and there is genuine, pure, almost childlike hope in her voice. The kind that appears after a long night, after battles, after you stop believing in dawn. It sounds as if every one of my words is water in a desert for her.
"Yes," I nod, and smile slightly, letting this smile be quiet, comforting. "And also… it is damn cool when you spit in Ivan's face. I almost laugh out loud. It is so funny, even the pain becomes just background noise."
She suddenly sniffs—and laughs. And it isn't a laugh of despair. It is the first healing one in a long time. The laugh in which the weight disappears. As if rusty armor has been removed from her, and she breathes in deeply for the first time.
"I couldn't have done it any other way… He really gets on my nerves," she murmurs with embarrassment, smiling slightly. And that smile of hers… It is like dawn after a storm.
I reach for her and kiss her. Gently. Cautiously. But in this kiss, there is everything: pain, forgiveness, and endless, stubborn love. We don't merge as two bodies, but as two halves of one wound, finally finding peace. Through my lips, I seem to convey everything that I can't express with words. Everything my soul has been screaming in her silence.
For a moment, it seems to me that all this time, I really haven't been around. That I have been wandering somewhere, getting lost, disappearing. And only now… only now do I truly come back. To her. To myself.
"So stop thinking those foolish thoughts…" I whisper, smiling again—that same, homey, familiar smile, like the scent of her hair on my sweater.
"And what, then? What will you threaten me with?" My girl raises an eyebrow, but in that challenge, there is no longer any pain. Only play. The kind where no one loses.
"We won't have ice cream, like we agreed," I reply with the demeanor of the most fearsome avenger.
"That's a valid argument." After these words, the girl cries again, and this time I don't try to stop her.
I simply hug her tightly, giving her the space to cry out all the tears that have been building up inside for so long. In her sobs, I feel all the pain, all the heaviness she has been carrying within her but couldn't release. Every tear is like a cry for help that she can't or doesn't want to express in words. I know that at this moment, she doesn't need words, but silence and support. I just hold her close, feeling her body tremble in my arms, and allow her tears to flow freely. It is a moment when words are unnecessary. Just being there, simply being by her side, is more important than anything else.
"I'm here," I say softly, almost soundlessly, as if it is not just for her, but for the world. Like a spell, a promise, a shield placed between her and the pain. Her shoulders tremble, but I can feel—with every tear, fear is leaving. Guilt is leaving. And everything that has been trapped inside finally finds its way out.
She buries her nose in my chest, and I feel her breath deepen. Steady, not desperate, but real. Alive. I stroke her hair softly, rhythmically, almost as if rocking a child in my arms. And in this, there is everything: forgiveness, care, gratitude. Consolation that she has lacked for so long.
The room is silent. Warm, filled with the sounds of our hearts, the rustle of fabric, the occasional sniffle. The light from the window bathes us in soft gold, wrapping us like a blanket. Outside, the world is noisy, bustling, merciless. But here, within these four walls, there is only peace. Fragile, like a snowflake, but real.