There's more inside me than the warmth seeping into my skin through the mug in my hands. A gentle warmth, one I've never felt before. I'm used to restless heat and orphaned cold. I focus on savoring this warmth, the kind I think comes from the safety of the person sitting across from me. For the first time, I let myself fall into the moment without abstract armor and iron chains in my mind.
Rowan stands up, asking if I have milk. He moves easily, casually, and it doesn't make me uneasy. If anything, I feel calmer than I ever do.
You're not alone with yourself.
The way he seems comfortable beside me.
When he adds the milk he finds in the fridge to his coffee, I realize he'll drink it cold.
Within a few hours, thanks to Rowan, the chaos inside me has pulled back. He pressed ice to my ankle, rubbed in an ointment he brought from his place. And I didn't stop him. I didn't stop him from staying here, either. After whispering forbidden, forbidden to myself, I make no effort to prevent any of this. I don't choose to keep Rowan away.
I break the rules. Without hesitation.
Rowan entered my life suddenly. Or maybe I entered his. But as he rummages through my kitchen cabinets one by one, I vote for the first option, for now.
"Am I seeing wrong," he says, "or is there really nothing in this fridge besides drinks and fruit?"
I answer with a small exhale.
"I don't know how to cook."
He doesn't look judgmental. Against all the usual social expectations, the shape of his face makes me laugh.
He is Rowan.
"Cooking is like therapy," he says. "It relaxes people."
That may be true for others. But you're afraid to even hold a knife.
I offer him a dismissive answer.
"I'm not planning to learn."
His eyebrows lift, as if challenging something. For some reason, I don't take it personally.
"You can't learn anyway."
I don't expect that. The surprise slips into my voice.
"Excuse me?"
He answers with a smile, clearly entertained by my shock.
"You don't learn to cook," he says. "You decide you want to, and you do it."
I nod and let a smile settle on my face.
"For a second I thought you were calling me incompetent."
His gaze locks onto mine.
"Maybe I was," he says, and then he joins my soft laugh with his own, quiet but deep. With that smile that gives itself to my laughter…
He composes himself, erasing the breadth of it, but he doesn't withhold his grin.
"You know I wouldn't," he says.
I blink.
I do.
I don't know how I know, but I do.
I feel as if I've known Rowan.
As if is too much.
That sense of knowing belongs exactly where it is.
In my heart.
I need to take a deep breath. Rowan keeps talking, and as I listen, I don't even realize I've forgotten the breath I needed.
"Not doing the things you don't want to do doesn't make you incompetent," he says. "It doesn't make anyone incompetent."
Could you speak in my place, mind? You're one of the things that makes me feel incompetent.
And the thoughts. Sharp thoughts, like stones of black tar, filthy-smelling, jagged.
"I'm glad I met you."
He doesn't expect it. I don't want to delay it.
His smile stutters, surprise taking its place for a brief moment before he gathers his expression again. It makes me smile.
"I'm glad I met you too, Lena."
The way he says my name opens a passage of excitement through the center of my chest, and I finally take that deep breath. I'd forgotten. The silence that forms between us is broken by Rowan again. He seems eager to keep talking.
"Do you always order in?"
"Usually. Sometimes I get by on snacks. Sometimes I boil vegetables."
I don't expect the shock on his face.
"So you're skipping one of the few things in life that should actually be enjoyed," he says. "I feel sorry for your stomach."
"This is just how I am," I shrug.
He looks at me like he wants to say something, but hesitates. I wait.
"I could cook for you," he says. "If you want?"
The passage of excitement is replaced by ants that tighten my breath. Before I can answer, he adds another sentence, as if trying to make it easier.
"You need to take medication, and eating badly when you're like this won't help."
I agree with him wildly inside, but I also think I shouldn't seem too eager. I can't act uninterested either. The last thing I want is to hurt him. If you leave, you hurt.
"Okay," I say. "That would be nice."
My mind panics. My heart stays clear and calm, despite my mind.
The smile forming on Rowan's face feels like an omen of good things. My heart leans my mind against that smile.
Calm down. You'll be okay. Nothing bad will happen.
Your battle will begin. It already has.
As I surrender to Rowan's reassuring smile, I smile too. He stands.
"Then I'll see you in a few hours?" he says, like a question.
"See you."
As he turns toward the door with one last grin, I can't help myself.
"Thank you, Rowan. For everything."
The first moment I say his name aloud, I'm filled with gratitude. I catch myself biting my lip, and stop the motion when he turns back.
"What do you like?" he asks.
I can't tell if he didn't respond to my thanks, or if this is his response. I don't understand.
My confusion reaches him.
"You're not vegetarian, right?"
It's his expression more than the question that makes me laugh. I look away for a second, still smiling. When I look back, he's waiting like an impatient child. He tries to satisfy his curiosity with another question.
"What's your favorite meal, then?"
My lips part in surprise. I realize I don't even know. I choose the first thing that comes to mind.
"Fish."
A childlike joy flickers across his face, as if he's finally received the answer he wanted.
"Perfect."
Perfect, my mind echoes. What do you think you're doing?
I pull a curtain over the dark voice in my mind. A curtain. Dark brown.
The color of Rowan's eyes.
After Rowan leaves, I find myself by the window, watching the rain that has just begun. The sky that was crystal-blue only moments ago has surrendered to gray, to a smoky heaviness that seeps into the lungs. A few seconds after my gaze drops from the sky to the street, I catch sight of the little boy I saw on my first day here. He's standing under the grocery's metal shutter to avoid getting wet. It's obvious from his face that his mother has scolded him. I smile.
Then I turn my head to the other side of the street, and instead of my blood freezing, I feel it thinning, as if it wants to leak out of my body. My stomach turns. I blink, and the image disappears for a moment. I swallow.
It wasn't him.His back was turned.You didn't even see clearly.
My breath begins to clog, and without noticing, I put weight on my ankle. Pain snaps me back and I shift it quickly. I hurry to my room.
"Everything will be okay," I start repeating to myself, over and over.
"It was just your mind playing tricks."
What was it you were told?
Internal and external affirmations.
"Your mind just couldn't tolerate a little peace, that's all. It'll pass."
My breaths tighten. I pray that a lump won't settle in my throat. If it does, I won't be able to go to Rowan.
"I'll be okay."
You've already started fighting, Lena. You just need to manage being calm. That's all you need to do. For now.
As I rummage through my drawers, I find the clock I bought and never hung. My breathing returns to its old rhythm as an idea forms. I find wrapping that suits it and pack it. I put on a velvet skirt I can slip into easily, and a long-sleeved blouse. I only brush my hair. Because shoes will be difficult, I slide on a pair of summer sandals. I take the package and leave.
I climb the stairs slowly. I don't want to strain my ankle any more. Your soul is strained enough already. Going up the stairs takes longer than getting dressed and leaving the apartment.
When I reach Rowan's door, shyness takes over every part of me. Should I not have come? How will he take it if I came too soon? I came to Rowan to escape myself.
God, what am I doing?
You've never been spoiled. Never been selfish. Never clung to anyone. Aren't you making even this feel too big in your head, compared to the endless shamelessness of others?
Don't be unfair to yourself, Lena.
I knock. I wait a few minutes. When I'm sure there's no sound inside, I turn toward the stairs. Just as I'm about to place my injured ankle on the step below, I hear the door open behind me. I turn with a smile.
And then the smile breaks.
A woman stands there. Someone I don't know.
Real smiles are always doomed to break. You forgot.
"Who are you?" she asks.
She's blonde, her eyes sharp enough to spark fire. I don't want to anger her, don't want to pull a stranger's lightning onto myself. With disappointment, I assume she must be someone special to Rowan. On the other hand, I don't want to lie either.
The smell of fish reaches my nose and pushes me into a half-truth.
I point to the next door. "Uncle Ryan hates fish," I say. "I just came from there. I wanted to warn him."
Her face stays full of questions. What do I even owe this woman? Why am I making this harder for myself?
So I won't make it harder for Rowan.
I can't believe myself.
I can't believe myself either.
"As if that old man likes anything," she mutters, and starts to close the door.
Without waiting for thanks, I go down the stairs slowly.
I hear her last sentence, irritated and sharp.
"I don't even like fish! Rowan, where did this sudden urge to cook fish come from?"
As question marks try to swarm my mind, I ignore them all.
When I enter my apartment alone, life strikes my soul again with the fact that I should be alone. My lonely soul has been under suspicion for years.
What did you expect?
That you could become friends with the first person you've truly connected with in a long time?
Or maybe something more?
No. More will never happen.
The battle.
It ended before it began.
With a deep sigh, I toss the package lightly onto one of the chairs. I curl into myself on the couch by the window. It's almost evening. The icy-blue sky hasn't surrendered yet to the navy of night. If there were stars, I'd watch them. The pigeons, mixing their cries into the sky, are frantic. The air is cold. They want to return to their nests, yet they can't seem to give up the itch to keep flying.
I say goodbye to the birds to chase away the cold seeping through my window.
I watch outside for a while. Before my thoughts invade, I remember that I shouldn't let my mind drift into empty moments. I rise, and for a second Rowan comes to mind. So he has someone in his life. Not like you. You're not like that.
My life could never be full. Fine, then I can fill it myself.
I go into the room where the boxes are, the things I bought for decoration and shoved into a corner. Loud sounds from upstairs slow my movements, but I decide not to listen. I drag the boxes into the living room, careful not to strain my ankle.
I start taking out the pieces I ordered online with excitement once I decided to move here. Yes, I was excited. Not excited enough to go shop in person, apparently. I realize it now. I keep going without surrendering to the ache in my chest.
I don't touch the clock I wrapped to take to Rowan. This house doesn't need time. I can't even remember why I bought it in the first place. I don't like keeping time.
I place a few figurines and ornaments where they please my eye. Then I tape the string lights with fireflies, the ones I saved for last, along the empty wall. I'm startled to realize I bought too many. Maybe I'll hang one in my room too.
When I'm done, I feel my stomach growl, and I bite my lip. Rowan's offer to cook and my current situation collide inside me. For the first time in my life, just as I've found myself close to a man, this stupid situation makes me feel pathetic.
A sound reaches my ear, and I smile.
Being friends with Rowan might be good for me.
More could be imagined, perhaps, but further than that can't even be possible. I tell myself I'm feeding my heart temporary, irrational thoughts because I haven't been this close to a man in a long time. Now it's time to cleanse myself of them.
"Maybe I shouldn't even be his friend," I whisper.
Unaware that the melodies drifting from the piano are becoming the steps Rowan is taking, wanting to reach me, I lie down on my bed.
Darkness is the best place for thinking nothing. I close my eyes and wish to be pulled into the black of sleep. The thing I asked of God yesterday still hovers at the edge of my mind.
I pray that we will win this battle.
Suddenly I sit up. The piano keys hesitate. Three seconds. One note. Five seconds, another note. Rowan doesn't know what to play tonight.
My eyes move through the dim dark of the room. The streetlights outside illuminate my night. In the glass, I face my own reflection, brought to life by that pale light. It doesn't need to be clear. Seeing my eyes is enough.
I allow myself to break apart the sentence I said hours ago.
Once again, in one more battle, you're alone, Lena. Alone. Can you do it?
I don't let my eyes fill. I take a deep breath and lie back down. In the ivy of hope wrapping around my heart, there is Rowan. Rowan, owner of my hope, the man who placed hope into my life by doing nothing.
By doing almost nothing.
As his steps continue upstairs and every melody brushes my ear, I make a promise to each of them.
I have no steps to take toward Rowan. I pray he won't take any toward me either. I know God understands that this is a false wish.
Because the piano keys no longer hesitate.
They don't allow silence to take me.
"Why were you so stubborn that day? What's your sign? Are you an Aries or something?"
Rowan succeeds. My laughter slices through my silence like a knife. When his laughter touches mine, I feel he knows me. More than that, I feel I know him.
Rowan says, "Don't be afraid."
I breathe.
We are inside a repetition.
"We'll take care of your ankle."
If only that were all we had to take care of.
Instead of arguing, I nod and let a broken smile fall into the air.
While the poison in my mind screams forbidden, I know Rowan has already begun to topple it.
I pray that we will win this battle.
You must win yourself first, Lena.