LAST DROP OF POISON

The coffee was growing cold on the table. It had been like that lately: she would make it but take a long time to drink the first sip. As if something inside her had decided she could no longer take certain things in—not even the seemingly harmless ones.

Seated, Julielle stared outside, lost somewhere in the morning sky. As a child, she’d enjoyed finding shapes in the clouds—animals, funny faces. Now she saw only white masses shifting form, pushed by the wind.

The city below carried on indifferently, unaware that she was just one more among the countless souls inhabiting its concrete jungle. The sound of engines, horns, sirens, voices on the pavement—all of it blended with the clamour of her own thoughts.

On the shelf above the sink sat the amber-coloured glass bottle. The label read: Herbal Elixir—Night Use.

Dennian had brought it home one evening, saying he needed something to calm his thoughts.

‘My doctor recommended it. If it doesn’t work, he’ll prescribe pills… Work stress,’ he’d said, without going into details.

When she, with the natural curiosity of someone wanting to know him better, had asked: ‘But what do you do?

Why is it so stressful?’

He simply replied, as if placing a fence between them: ‘Let it be like this between us. Some things don’t need to be revealed…’

She had fallen into that trap, as if mystery were part of the charm...

She’d met him on one of those evenings when everything feels dull and going out is more an act of emotional survival than genuine desire. Anything that could fill some space within, even without knowing quite what.

Julielle had walked into a dimly lit bar—the kind of place where smudged makeup went unnoticed.

She sat at the counter beside him, a man in a dress shirt, face unreadable and striking.

He didn’t notice her straight away. He was drinking something amber-coloured from a short glass, the ice clinking softly with each movement. ‘Hi, good evening…’

He didn’t reply. She persisted. Where had she found such boldness? Perhaps because he intrigued her. ‘Do you come here often?’

He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting hers, tracing her face, then her body, before answering: ‘Sometimes. Why?’

It came off curt, almost annoyed.

‘Nothing… silly question. Forget it,’ she said, shrugging as she ordered a drink.

He seemed to realise and said, ‘No worries. And you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Do you come here often?’

‘No. First time…’

‘It’s quiet here. I like it because I can drink in peace…’

‘Am I bothering you?’

‘No, miss. That’s not what I meant. It’s just that it’s not too busy here, not too loud. I can sit with my thoughts, you know?’

‘I get it…’

The conversation flowed as if they’d known each other for ages.

The night had grown late by the time they left the bar. He walked her to her small flat…

It was strange to think she never knew where he lived. He’d said he shared a place with a friend who didn’t like visitors…

Under the streetlight and the glow of the bedside lamp, tipsy, she hadn’t really seen his face.

She’d only felt, through the horizontal dance that repeated itself through the night, his muscles and body hair pressed against her waxed skin.

Only at dawn, when the light lays everything bare, did she notice his face: aquamarine eyes, a small scar on his chin hidden beneath a few days’ beard. Light-coloured, cropped hair, peppered with silver strands.

A few wrinkles that deepened when he smiled. A man with a past—probably in his forties.

But she didn’t ask. He noticed the curious look she gave his sculpted body and offered:

‘I once thought of becoming a boxer…’

How she missed him now…

She remembered the poetic notes he used to leave on the bedside table, written on ordinary bits of paper—sometimes even on a receipt or the back of a napkin—for her to find when she woke up and he was already gone.

One of them lingered in her mind: “Your eyes hold the colour of autumn, of fallen leaves, your skin the fragrance that makes me long for you, and the sweet taste of your full lips that makes me want to devour you whole…”

She’d kept those scraps of paper, but despite the sweet words, he never spoke of the future.

Sometimes, as they lay in bed, he would stroke her face—his fingers gliding through the waves of her long, dark hair—and say: ‘I adore this freshness of your youth… it makes me feel alive.’

She felt flattered… and confused.

Yet any mention of his own life would make him change the subject, avert his eyes, raise walls.

Sometimes he would call—always from a private number. She had no way of calling him back.

No number. No contact.

All she knew was his first name, if that was even real.

No surname, no clue, nothing that would allow her to find him.

That, added to his vanishing acts, the vague replies she’d been collecting, and the way he behaved—were reason enough for her not to have become so deeply involved…

She, on the other hand, had opened herself entirely.

He knew everything about her: about her parents who didn’t want her to leave their small town in pursuit of a modelling career; the fight for recognition; the poorly paid jobs that were just enough to get by.

Her dream of one day gracing the cover of a prestigious magazine—and finally being able to say to her parents: “Look, I made it.”

She hadn’t made it yet. But she still hoped that, at some point, the wind might blow in her favour.

Julielle had flirted with theatre. An amateur play. A colleague from the agency who had an actor boyfriend said they were looking for people for small roles. The two of them had taken the plunge.

After rehearsals, the director had said she had talent—something raw, moving.

Perhaps it was worth investing in. She might be discovered. Become known.

With a bit of luck, follow a more promising path.

But he… he never seemed to care. He didn’t encourage her. Nor did he discourage her—he said nothing at all.

Since the last time he left and didn’t return, she had started drinking from that bottle too.

It was as if it were the part of him that remained—something that silenced the body, even when the soul screamed. It had become a habit…

The flat still held traces of him. Not just in drawers and on surfaces.

The toothbrush in the glass.

The mouthguard by the bed—he ground his teeth at night. A pair of sunglasses forgotten on the shelf.

Crumpled T-shirts in the laundry basket, with socks and underwear.

It didn’t feel like he had planned to disappear for long…

That’s what ate away at her: had he left for good, given up on her—or was he simply taking time?

Then again, she wondered, had something happened to him?

A car accident was possible—he did say he travelled a lot.

What if he was in a hospital somewhere?

Or dead… Best not to think of that.

She was lost in thought when, in some fleeting instant, her eyes turned to the front door.

To her surprise, there was an envelope on the floor, slipped underneath it. 

An old building. No doorman. Anyone could get in.

She stood up in a rush. At once, she recognised the handwriting with her name on it. It was his…

She opened the door, breath held, clinging to the vain hope of finding him there.

The corridor was empty...

She ran to the living room window, swept the street with her eyes. Traffic moved on chaotically, indifferent.

No sign of him. No sign of the car.

What an old-fashioned man. Why hadn’t he knocked?

Would it have been that hard to face her?

Was he so much of a coward he couldn’t even look her in the eyes?

Why hadn’t he phoned, at least?

It would’ve been better to hear him—even if it hurt—than to receive that ridiculous note. 

Ridiculous... and when, exactly, had he slipped it under the door?

‘Juli,
     I’m sorry I disappeared, but it was for reasons I can’t explain.
     I know you might not want to see me again.
    You must be very angry with me.
    Forgive me.
    I just wanted to say that I’m leaving for good.
   You don’t need to wait for me anymore.
   Take care.’ 

Nothing else. Bastard…

Stupid, foolish woman—how could she have fallen for a man like that, so unpredictable?

Maybe it was precisely that which had drawn her to him. Some masochistic need.

A good psychoanalyst might help her understand what was going on in her head—but there was no money for that.

The solution was to drown in her own anguish, heart in pieces…

One love is healed by another—that’s what she’d always heard.

The hard part was finding another love in the state she was in.

Her most recent modelling jobs had been done half-heartedly, feigning a false cheer.

She couldn’t refuse; she needed the money to survive.

Dennian had helped out with expenses here and there—paying the odd bill, doing the shopping—but there was never any agreement between them. 

It was spontaneous, supposedly, though to her it felt like a transaction; payment for sleeping with him.

That bothered her, but she kept quiet.

The last time he came, he left her with a generous sum of money.

He didn’t explain why. She simply accepted it. In her case, any financial help was welcome.

She was no longer among the youngest at the modelling agency.

She had started late, and she knew the career wasn’t a long one.

He was there—and not there. He’d disappear for five, six days—‘business trips,’ though he never said what kind—and then return as if it were their first time all over again—eager, passionate, full of love to give.

He would stay for two, maybe three days…

The fact that he never answered her questions left her uneasy.

Surely he was involved with someone. Had children.

A man like that—well-groomed, attractive—was hardly going to be unattached.

Her mum always used to say, ‘Ripe fruit at the roadside? It’s either worm-ridden or there’s a wasp nest in the tree…’

So why was she still clinging to this illusion? He would never truly be hers.

But how could she rip him out of her heart? It was all her fault.

For flirting with him. For letting herself get caught up in his seductive game…

The first times he disappeared, she cried.

But by the third or fourth time, she knew he’d come back.

Only now, it felt different.

Something told her he wouldn’t return again…

It had been a month already.

Julielle sat back down at the table. The coffee was stone cold by now.

She picked up the bottle.

The antidote she had taken in drops all this time.

Not the one inside the glass, but the kind that seeped through words, through empty returns and mechanical excuses. 

She uncapped it. The liquid trickled out thick, translucent, sweet-smelling.

She brought the spoon to her lips—but didn’t drink…

Then, in a calm, almost ceremonial gesture, she turned to the sink and poured it all out.

She watched the liquid disappear down the drain—along with what remained of that love that had poisoned her veins.

Only then did she sip the coffee. It was cold…

She tipped the cup into the sink.

The days following the note were strangely quiet.

Not the comforting quiet of a peaceful place, but the kind that echoes—like glass cracking from within.

Julielle had stopped taking the elixir to sleep.

Alcohol worked to a point—it left her numb—but the next day she’d wake depressed and irritable.

She didn’t want to become dependent on anything—not even pills.

Some nights she woke drenched in sweat from a nightmare.

He was with another woman…

Her nightdress soaked, even in the middle of winter.

Her body cried out—not for the substance, but for his absence.

It was as if his presence still occupied the sofa, left impressions on the sheets, echoed through the walls—as though they would suffocate her.

She’d open the window, letting the night air flow through the flat, bringing momentary relief—until her skin prickled with cold.

She no longer shed tears.

She felt as though she’d emptied herself completely—like someone watering a dead plant, hoping something might bloom that had long since died.

But why did she still keep the flame of possibility alive, hoping to see him again?

On one of those nights when sleep felt unreachable, Julielle decided to go out.

It was past eleven-thirty. She put on her coat, fixed her hair in the hallway mirror, grabbed her bag and went down the three flights of stairs like someone running from themselves.

The street was quiet. The city was preparing for sleep, while her mind was wide awake.

She walked on autopilot, her steps leading her—as if by instinct—to the bar where she had first met him.

It was the first time she’d returned there since.

Two drunk men were stumbling out just as she arrived.

One of them mumbled something obscene, mistaking her for a prostitute.

She ignored them and stepped inside.

The place was busier than usual that night—perhaps because it was Friday.

For many, it was the start of the weekend.

The same waiter was working; he recognised her with a faint smile.

She merely nodded and ordered a drink. She looked around.

A few men chatted loudly at a table.

In a corner, a couple exchanged discreet caresses, lost in each other.

Dennian wasn’t there…

She felt a mix of disappointment and relief.

As though part of her had hoped to see him, while the other part feared being seen there—alone.

As if it were something forbidden, something he mustn’t know.

But why should it matter what he thought?

Since when did she owe him any explanation?

To hell with that…

For all intents and purposes, she was a free woman. Was she really?

Where would he be now? Thinking of her?

Or had he found someone else—someone he was enjoying himself with?

A wave of desolation ran down her spine at the thought.

The alcohol, instead of dulling it, sharpened her thoughts, made them more jagged, more bitter.

She envied the people laughing at the bar, a little way off.

The world had no idea what was going on inside her—and didn’t care either.

Julielle ordered another drink, hoping it might soften her thoughts.

But neither the drink nor the bar’s low lighting could numb her mind.

She wished she had someone to talk to—someone who would welcome her restlessness without judgement.

But she had no real friends. No one at the agency, no one trustworthy among the people she crossed paths with.

In the big city, she was alone. She couldn’t even call home.

Imagine if her parents knew the life she was leading. They’d be horrified…

The daughter who had once dreamt of being on a magazine cover, now scraping by with sporadic work, lost, in love with a man who would never be hers.

With a sigh, she paid the bill and left the bar.

The street greeted her with a gust of cold wind.

For a moment, the night air seemed to soothe her thoughts.

She walked slowly, her footsteps echoing on the empty pavement.

There was something oddly comforting in that nocturnal solitude—as if, at last, the city had gone quiet to hear her pain.

Life went on, and for a fleeting second, a strange image crossed her mind:

Life was like a train about to leave the platform, and if she didn’t want to be left behind, she’d have to run, cling to one of the carriages, and with effort, climb aboard.

Only then could she continue the journey.

In that moment, she promised herself she would no longer think of him.

She wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on the possible reasons for his disappearance.

He had always been a mystery. Who knows how many other secrets he’d kept…

So far, not a single call. Nothing from him—only a vacuum.

It was better to take care of herself.

Like someone learning to walk again after a fall—slowly, but surely.

In the days that followed, she began altering small routines.

She washed his clothes, packed them away with his personal belongings in a bag, and tucked it into the wardrobe.

Down at the bottom, hidden—so she wouldn’t have to see it.

She got rid of the bedsheets that still carried his scent.

Rearranged the furniture. Cleaned the ceiling, walls and floor—as if trying to erase every trace he had left in the flat.

At last, the air felt lighter.

She returned to reading...

First the books she already knew, then the ones that had waited for years on the shelf. 

She went to the local library and started writing down quotes in a notebook—as if she needed to relearn how to think with words that weren’t his.

At the stationery shop where she often bought supplies, Julielle met Ottamir...

The coincidence came in the form of a small gesture: both reached out at the same time for the same packet of textured paper—the kind that feels slightly rough under the fingers, like something old.

She pulled her hand back, offering a smile as an apology.

‘Go ahead, I was just looking,’ she said.

‘Be my guest,’ he replied, returning the gesture. ‘I’ve been buying this kind for years. It absorbs ink beautifully. Feels like tired paper… you know?’

She found his choice of words curious. ‘Tired?’

‘Yes. As if it had already heard a great deal. The texture tells stories before you’ve even written on it…’

That intrigued her. It wasn’t common to meet people who spoke like that, in such an ordinary place.

Ottamir was neither handsome nor plain. He had a goatee, and his black, curly hair fell to his shoulders, giving him a younger look—somewhere in his thirties.

His round face carried a quiet, almost unassuming kindness. But his eyes—onyx-coloured and deep-set—held a sadness that didn’t go unnoticed. There were dark circles beneath them, the kind worn by those who sleep poorly.

Julielle’s own had improved. She was sleeping better.

She’d been working more, and often came home exhausted—after a long day of poses, forced expressions, costume changes. But the exhaustion was welcome.

It felt, at last, as though her body was winning the battle against her mind.

His fingers were stained with ink, and he spoke softly, in the voice of someone who listens more than they speak.

He told her he was a visual artist and that he had a studio nearby.

Julielle mentioned she was interested in art—she wasn’t lying, though she wasn’t sure if he understood what that meant to her. Still, he invited her to visit the space.

A few days later, on a free afternoon, she went. Ten minutes on foot.

The studio was tucked behind a modern building, in the rear—an old house that seemed to have resisted time out of pure stubbornness.

Most of the place had been converted into a studio.

Canvases leaned against all the walls, paintbrushes sat in old glasses, flecks of paint covered the floor, doors, even the light switches.

He recycled materials, painted postcards and small panels using collage and natural pigments.

‘This house belonged to my parents,’ he said, as she wandered through the space.
‘When my father passed away three years ago, I had to sell part of the land. They built that building out front.

The money helped pay off some of the debts from his treatment…’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Yeah, it’s a pity. It was a large plot—almost like a small farm in the middle of the city. You could enjoy the shade of the trees on hot days…’

‘Do you have any siblings? Family?’

‘Only child,’ he replied, with the ease of someone who’d said that many times before.

‘Do you live alone?’

‘I do, yes…’

‘I imagined you were married…’

He smiled faintly. ‘Married, me? No. I was, when I was younger, but it didn’t work out…’

He paused briefly, then added, almost as if thinking aloud: ‘She made me choose between her and art. And here I am… My marriage to paint and brushes has lasted well over a decade.’

Julielle thought she might be being a little too curious and shifted her gaze to a large table where hand-painted cards were neatly stacked in small piles.

‘You’ve got hands that are searching for something,’ he said suddenly, watching the way she touched the paper. ‘Like someone trying to dig up a memory.’

She laughed, unsure what to say. What an interesting way of understanding people, she thought.

Ottamir was the kind of person who entered someone’s life through the back door—quietly, helpfully, with small gestures, never with promises. Just presence…

One afternoon, she was coming back from a failed advertising audition, heels broken, eyes and legs burning with fatigue. Ottamir appeared at the corner, holding a paper bag of bread.

     ‘Would you like a bite with me? They’re still warm…’

 ‘I’m so tired I don’t think I can walk all the way to your place…’

 ‘We could go to yours…’ he offered, a little sheepishly.

 She realised he’d never been to her flat. What a contrast.

 Dennian had invaded her privacy from the very first night, yet she had encouraged him...

With Ottamir, there was intimacy—friendship, at least on her part. She had no desire to have the same attitude as before with Dennian...

But he was discreet, one of those cautious men who win a woman over slowly, with small acts of kindness, until she falls in love.

She, however, wasn’t in love—though she did see things in him that she liked.
Thoughtful, calm, a good listener…

 ‘All right then…’

 He walked her home. Her body surrendered to the relief of finally being back indoors.

He lingered there, leaning on the kitchen counter while she made coffee and poured her heart out—about the auditions, the constant rejections that always sounded the same, the empty compliments, the fear she’d made the wrong decision by leaving her parents’ town.

He listened. That was all. Somehow, that was enough.

Over the months, the pattern repeated itself.

Small encounters. Conversations exchanged over coffee, glances, confessions.

Julielle began to notice the way he looked at her—as if he saw something even she couldn’t quite name. Or rather, she suspected what it was, but didn’t want to give him any expectations.

Still, she missed something a little bolder…

She listened to him talk about pigments, about his father, a smoker who’d died from chronic emphysema.

Once, without realising it, she spoke of Dennian—without naming him.

Not with bitterness or anger, but as if telling the story of another woman.

‘He was one of those puzzles that takes ages to find the right pieces, and never seems to get finished,’ she said, her eyes on an unfinished canvas.

‘You still love him…’

She blushed. ‘I wasn’t talking about me…’

Ottamir looked at her with tenderness.

For a time, that’s how things went between them: half-spoken sentences, and yet fully understood.

Nothing had happened between them—no daring gesture, no step beyond the safe comfort of friendship.

Until one day, sitting side by side on the sofa, he stopped mid-sentence and, without warning, stole a kiss.

It was awkward.

She felt the tension in his body—perhaps fear of rejection, or of disturbing the balance they had carefully built.

He muttered an apology, almost regretfully, about to pull away.

But then, driven by an impulse she barely understood, Julielle kissed him back. She was lonely, she later told herself…

Before they knew it, they were undressing slowly, unhurriedly, almost as if they didn’t want to startle the moment.

Shoes, socks, and clothing were left behind, forming a trail to his bedroom.

Inside, the room had the texture of improvisation: thick cotton sheets, a blanket that still held the scent of cheap fabric softener.

The air smelled of stale coffee and dried jasmine—from a sachet hanging off the wardrobe handle.

Julielle touched the pillow before lying down—it was coarse, worn, but warm. Like everything in that room.

Nothing luxurious, nothing too beautiful. Just human.

They stayed like that for a while: skin against skin, breath uneven, the whole room listening to that new silence between them.

There was no rush, no wild passion—just two bodies that, in some way, already knew each other from within, trying now to recognise each other from the outside too.

Some things should never be experienced—or at least should require a reason for one to want to live through them. That wasn’t the case here.

Something broke inside her, like a glass vase. The shards didn’t hurt at first, but later they scratched—a dull discomfort that lingered within her…

That was how she felt the next day. Ashamed, burdened by guilt...

Ottamir was a good man. Careful, kind.

Yet she, though young and with little experience, knew: he would never be the man she’d choose to share her bed with.

There was a mismatch between his body and her desire, something that couldn’t be taught, nor made up for with sweetness.

There was, of course, the inevitable—and unfair—comparison with Dennian.

With him, her body responded differently.

Even without love, there had been a force, an intensity that Ottamir, with his measured gestures, simply did not possess.

He could never fill the empty spaces—not those in her chest, nor the ones left by his modest anatomy, which gave her the awful sensation that something was missing…

Perhaps that’s why his marriage hadn’t worked out.

Julielle regretted having faked an orgasm. Regretted giving Ottamir a triumph that hadn’t happened.

She didn’t know exactly why she’d done it. Out of pity? No… pity was, perhaps, the cruellest sentiment one could offer.

He had been so focused on pleasing her, so eager to get it right, that she’d felt compelled to respond.

Not from desire, but from a kind of confused gratitude—like applauding a play for the actor’s dedication, even if one hadn’t enjoyed the performance.

She preferred to see it that way: as an exchange, not a mistake.

It was less cruel when framed like that… and it helped her move on.

After that day, Ottamir changed.

He became bolder. He began seeking her out with flowers, with small invitations. Julielle, not knowing how to say what needed to be said, began to avoid him.

At first, with grace. Then, with effort.

‘I’m really tired today…’

‘I’ve got an early job tomorrow…’

‘I’ll get in touch one of these days…’

‘I’ll be home late tomorrow…’

The excuses repeated themselves, lost their freshness, and eventually withered—like the flowers he brought her.

In the end, he understood. He didn’t insist.

He simply stepped away—with the same discretion with which he had entered her life.

Julielle suffered for it.

She had wanted them to remain friends. She had hoped to preserve what had once been beautiful—the conversations, the listening, the care.

But the spell was broken. And once broken, no matter how gently one tries to piece it back together, it never becomes quite the same.

There are bonds that, after the wrong touch, can no longer bear even the purest gesture. So, that was that...

All that remained was an abstract painting of his, on a wall in the living room.

Once more, she felt alone—as if she had returned to the starting point, only a little more tired. That had become a pattern over the past months: brief and intense connections, followed by the silence they left behind.

Was it something in the way she walked? In what she didn’t say? In how she carried herself through life? Or was it simply fate drawing its crooked lines—trying to teach her some lesson?

Testing her limits, her fragilities, her ability to face life’s challenges and, through them, grow stronger.

How many more would come? How many would pass through her life like a hand brushing a polished surface, with no intention of staying?

Would there ever be someone—someday—who stayed?

Sometime later, on a rainy morning, Julielle received an envelope with no sender.

This time, sent by post.

It was a letter… from him...

‘Juli,

All this time, I’ve been thinking of you. At this point in my life, I feel lost. I don’t know which direction to take, or whether there even is a direction left to take. I can’t make choices, only decisions shaped by circumstance. That might sound confusing to you. And once again, I don’t have the courage to explain why.

The truth is I don’t know anything—not even myself. The problems are mine. I know I hurt you. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, but there’s something caught in my throat I can’t seem to let out…

Know that, even if everything between us happened in a tangled way, I’ve come now, as I write this, to the realisation that what we had was something true. You may call me a coward, unscrupulous, sadistic—I accept any of those words, for not having followed through and for leaving you in the void. I was weak. I was absent…

In the last dream I had of you, you were smiling. There was another man by your side. It saddened me, made me jealous—but I have no right to ask anything of you. If that’s true, if you have found someone, and if you’re happy, then even though it breaks me, I’ll feel better knowing you are well.

Forgive me for not having loved you the way you deserved…

D.’

She didn’t cry. She just didn’t want to believe what she was reading.

Yes, she agreed with all the adjectives he had used to describe himself.

Suddenly, she needed to breathe. To see people, hear voices, feel the world around her. She left the house with the envelope folded in her coat pocket, as if it weighed more than it should.

She walked into the coffee shop on the corner and ordered an espresso—the only drug she still allowed herself, though she was gradually trying to get used to tea, as one learns to settle for the tepid sweetness of resignation.

Some of the girls at the agency used chemicals. They had offered. She declined.

No, she would never put that sort of thing in her body.

What if she got hooked? She could end up like some of them—on the streets, or worse, forgotten.

She had plans for the future, even if she couldn’t outline them fully just yet, even if they were blurry—but they were there, waiting for her. At least coffee was among the legal drugs. She could drink it, seated calmly in public, without fear of being arrested or losing herself in the process…

When the cup arrived—hot and thick—she placed the letter on the table, staring at that slip of paper as if trying to decipher a riddle, or find some hidden code between the lines. She sipped the coffee slowly.

She could taste the bitterness on her tongue, but also the warmth spreading through her body—as if something might still ignite her from within.

As though that dark, strong drink reflected her very existence.

That was it: life had the flavour of that coffee—bitter, but with luck, it left some trace of warmth, some lingering sense of meaning. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to contain a tiredness that wasn’t just physical—it was soul-deep. 

The clinking of cups, the hurried footsteps around her, the background music—it all carried on, indifferent to her. Yet, there she was. Seated before a steaming cup, trying to find in the simple act of drinking coffee the courage to move on…

It was with the arrival of spring that he reappeared—just when she had thought she would never see him again.

She was walking home from the supermarket when she saw him, leaning against his red car, parked near her building.

He looked thinner, bearded, his clothes crumpled like he had slept in them.

His expression—defensive, almost like an animal that knows it has done wrong and still approaches with lowered eyes, hoping for mercy.

‘Hi…’ was all he said.

She didn’t know, in that moment, whether to feel relieved or insulted.

There was a tight knot, somewhere between her stomach and throat.

She stopped, hugging the shopping bag to her chest as though it were a shield.

‘What do you want?’

‘I knocked at your door. You didn’t answer. I decided to wait… until you turned up.’

‘You could’ve called.’

‘I needed to see you.’

She opened the gate without saying another word, without looking back.

He followed her and she didn’t try to stop him.

As she climbed the stairs—the lift, as always, out of order—she heard his footsteps behind hers.

The soles of his shoes struck the steps like a dull drumbeat, insistent.

There was something penitential in the sound. As though every step said: I’m here. I’m here...

That, somehow, wounded her more than any silence.

In the hallway, with key already in hand, she unlocked the door.

The flat was stuffy, filled with the familiar scent of unmoved objects—time at rest.
She set the shopping bag down on the small kitchen table.

He stepped in. Closed the door slowly, as if any sound might startle what little peace remained in that place.

‘You look different,’ he said, uncertainly, as though groping in the dark.

She crossed the room and opened a window.

The late afternoon air came in warm, carrying the scent of distant rain.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, not turning her face.

‘I don’t know… you seem more like a woman. Must be the new haircut…’

‘Oh, so you noticed?’ She tried to sound hurt, but it came out like a childish sulk, and that annoyed her even more. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye.

‘Of course I noticed... Juli, I—’

‘You owe me an explanation,’ she cut in, rummaging through the fridge as if searching for something that had never been there. The truth was, she simply didn’t want to face him. Not yet.

‘I know…’

The silence settled between them like a third presence in the room. She considered asking him to leave.

One sentence, one gesture would have been enough. But she said nothing.

Part of her wanted to hear him out—not for the words themselves, which could well be rehearsed, but for whatever might show through the gaps, in what he failed to hide.

She slammed the fridge door shut.

‘Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you talk to me? You just left that bloody note days after vanishing...’

‘I was a coward. But... there is an explanation for all of it…’

‘Of course there is. There always is. What do you think, Dennian? That you can disappear whenever you like, leave me here not knowing what to think, how to act... and then just come back like I’m some object on a shelf, waiting for you? Has it ever crossed your mind that I’m human? That I feel?’

‘I know... I know. Forgive me…’

‘What do you even want from me? Tell me. Why won’t you just leave me alone once and for all? Vanish. Forget I exist!’

‘Is that what you want?’

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The tears came first, without warning, like a dam giving way. She cried with anger, with hurt, with shame—shame for still loving him so deeply, even after everything.

He stepped closer. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, her eyes still wet, when she felt his hand touch hers.

She didn’t pull away.

‘I missed you,’ he murmured.

She could have said ‘Don’t say that,’ or even slapped him, just so he’d feel a fraction of the pain she'd carried since the day he left.

She could have stepped back, shoved him out the door, locked it twice, chained it, screamed until her voice tore, broken something just to give shape to the chaos inside her.

However, she did none of that.

She stayed still, allowing the touch her body still remembered—despite the memory reminding her of the damage. It was like touching a wound that had begun to heal, only to have it reopen, raw and throbbing.

His hands on her skin were the same temperature as before.

‘We have a lot to talk about... but not now,’ he said, voice husky, too close.

The mint on his breath, the musky scent of him, the sea-glass eyes only inches from her face—everything in her screamed step away, and yet everything about him was hypnotic. She remained there, motionless under his spell, simply closing her eyes as his lips touched hers. Soft at first, then deepening.

Julielle let herself be swept by a wave of sensation washing over her. From head to toe…

Her mouth was dry, and only he could quench that thirst. Numb, she let him guide her to the bed.

His fingers undressed her, tracing the familiar lines of her body with the hesitation of someone who knew the territory well but understood he had to ask permission again.

She let him touch her. The desire, long buried, surged like a rising tide—warm, relentless. Her body opened like a nocturnal bloom, led not by reason, but by something more primal: the memory of skin, the echo of a feeling almost forbidden, the craving of a love never quite healed.

They found each other in a rhythm already known. Only the sound of breathing filled the room—hands meeting, bodies moulding together, damp with sweat, clinging as if the world might end by morning and this was their last chance to taste what still lingered, embedded between the ache and the pleasure.

There they were again—two intimate strangers, cradled by the same longing.

But the world hadn’t ended—at least not there, in that room, when she opened her eyes. There was movement nearby. Instinctively, she reached out to the side, touching only the crumpled sheet. She turned on the bedside lamp.

Dennian standing with his back to her, putting on his shirt.

‘You’re leaving? What time is it?’ Her voice was still hoarse, thick with sleep and confusion.

‘Half past six… I have to go.’

‘Are you coming back?’

He remained silent, focused on the buttons, as if each one pulled him farther away.

Julielle untangled herself from the bed, her hair tousled, her feet searching for the floor, her skin warm from the sleep, reaching for her clothes over the armchair. 

She slipped it on like someone shielding herself from something worse.

‘Dennian… you’re not coming back, are you?’

‘Juli… I…’

‘Why do you do this to me? Just tell me…’

He left the room holding his shoes. She followed him.

On the couch, he was putting on his socks, still not looking at her.

Julielle stood there, in front of him — waiting for an answer she already suspected, but needed to hear.

‘I have an appointment this morning... Ah… can you give me your bank account number?’ he said, finally lifting his eyes to her.

‘What for?’ she asked, suspicious.

‘No questions, please…’

‘Are you trying to pay me for the night?’ The sarcasm escaped in a dry tone.

‘Don’t belittle yourself, Juli. You confuse things too easily…’

‘And what am I supposed to think?’

‘Just give me the number… don’t make this harder.’

Pretending indifference, she went to the bedroom and came back with a folded bank statement. She handed it to him without saying a word. He tucked the paper into his trouser pocket like someone hiding a mistake.

‘Of course you’re married…’ she said, eyes fixed on him.

Dennian nodded slightly.

‘I knew it… how stupid I was to let myself fall for you…’

‘Hey, now. I didn’t plan any of this. You were the one who came up to me that night at the bar, remember?’

‘If I could go back in time, I would’ve ignored you… What was a married man doing alone in a bar anyway?’

‘Everyone’s entitled to a moment alone. But if you must know, I’d gone to a party with my wife. She had a jealous meltdown there… we fought when we got home.’

‘And you must have given her a reason…’

‘Actually, no. She’d been seeing things that weren’t there.’

‘And then you found me. Used me to vent your frustration, your anger. Must’ve thought I was easy, naive, ripe for manipulation.’

‘None of that… I fell in love with you.’

‘Don’t try to soften things, Dennian. If that’s even your real name...’

He distorted his face, seeming hurt. ‘Of course it is... You really think I’d lie about my own name?’

‘I wouldn't be surprised...’ 

‘Well, I understand why you think that way....’

‘Just be honest for once. You used me. Admit it…’

‘I suppose I deserve that.’

‘So, just be honest for once. You used me this whole time. And you came back to do that again, isn’t that right?’

‘I already told you: don’t underestimate yourself. You’re far more than the version of yourself you seem to believe…’

Her face flushed, but she didn’t look away.

‘Now it all makes sense. You showing up and vanishing without explanation, that story about sharing a place with a friend who didn’t like visitors, how some things didn’t need to be said… It all felt mysterious. Even romantic. Why didn't you tell me the truth?’

She sighed deeply and filled a glass of water from the filter, her hands trembling. She could feel his gaze on her back, but didn’t turn around.

‘Sit down here, just for a moment,’ he asked. ‘I’m going to tell you the whole truth, and all I ask is that you listen.’

‘Another one of your lies?’

‘Just… don’t interrupt me.’

She sat down reluctantly… Gripped the glass as if holding onto something solid. As if, between her hands, she were trying to keep from spilling what was slipping away — her pride, her pain, her wasted time.

‘I work for an image and reputation consulting firm…’

Julielle let out a nervous laugh. ‘So, you build facades. I can see you’re good at it…’

‘Spare me the sarcasm, Juli. Let me finish, please…’

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand.

‘I’ve worked at that company since I was very young. I started out running errands. Climbed my way up through sheer effort, study, and hard work, even though I…’ He cleared his throat, as if something were stuck there. Finally, he added, ‘Even though I married the owner’s daughter…’

‘Oh, come on, you’re full of surprises…’

‘It’s not what you’re thinking…’

‘What am I thinking? Nothing. It’s quite clear. You climbed the ladder by marrying into money…’

‘Please just listen…’ He reached for her arm, but she tried to pull away. In a softer voice, he continued, ‘I didn’t marry her for money. I really cared about her. I was well-regarded by her family. Her father saw me as someone promising, hardworking. She and I fell in love. She always supported me. But now… after meeting you… I see that what we had was just affection. Passion at first, yes, but never real love…’

‘And why are you telling me this now? Planning to leave her? Or did she leave you because she couldn’t stand your lies anymore?’

‘You’re judging me too quickly, without hearing it all…’

‘So go on. What else do you have to say?’

‘She’s sick. Terminally ill. That’s why she’s been so tense lately. She’s hospitalised right now. The doctors gave her months… a year at most, if she’s lucky. If you can call that luck, for someone who’s dying…’

Julielle looked at him, and then she saw something she’d missed before: his eyes were different. They no longer had the calm, crystal-blue tone of a summer sea—but the weight of storm-tossed waves. A sharp pain crossed her chest.

‘Do you have children?’

‘No. She couldn’t get pregnant… And I believe that contributed to her illness. She felt incomplete, even though I never pressured her…’

‘Did you want to have children with her?’

‘Maybe… I don’t know…’

‘When did you find out about the illness?’

‘Over two months ago…’

‘That’s why you disappeared for good…’

‘Now do you understand my situation? I wanted to get to know you better, had plans to leave her… but things aren’t that simple. I wanted to do it without hurting her. Then came the diagnosis… I was lost. That letter I sent you… I wanted to explain everything, but I regretted sending it. I think it was a cry for help. Even if not a very clear one…’

‘I tried to understand what you were really saying… but all I could read was a goodbye.’

‘And what made you change your mind? Come find me now?’

‘I needed to see you… even if just one last time…’ His voice came out low and hoarse.

He cupped her face gently in his hands — with a tenderness that hurt more than a slap. His thumbs traced her features, as if trying to memorise the contours of something precious before it disappeared.

‘Let me look closely at this beautiful face…’ he said with a sad smile. ‘I want to keep every detail in my memory…’

Then he kissed her. Slowly. A kiss without urgency, without promises. Just the desire to make that moment last forever. ‘To hold on to the feeling… the texture… the taste of your lips…’

She bit her lower lip lightly, eyes wet.

‘Is this goodbye?’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘I think so, Juli… It’s so hard for me to define anything right now. But there’s one thing I know for sure: I want you to be happy.’

‘Without you?’

‘Maybe… it’s for the best.’ His voice came out lower, as if it hurt to say it. He looked away, fixing his gaze on some arbitrary spot on the wall, as if hoping to escape himself there.

‘Look at us. See our age difference. You’re twenty-three… I’m forty-one. I was reckless, selfish. Forgive me for making you suffer.’

‘I don’t see any problem with our age…’

‘You still have your whole life ahead of you. You could find someone who gives you everything I can’t. I have nothing right now. I can’t ask you to wait for me… and I can’t abandon my wife, even if what remains between us now is only a kind of gratitude.’

‘And what if I want to wait?’ she said, reaching to touch his arm.

He stepped back slightly, as if needing that distance to stay whole. ‘Don’t make things harder, Juli… please…’

The air between them grew heavy, like that moment just before the rain—when time holds its breath, and everything seems suspended, waiting for the first thunderclap.

They remained silent, tearful eyes locked, staring at each other for seconds that felt infinite.

He then stood up slowly, smoothing his trousers with the palms of his hands.

‘The money I left… it must be gone by now.’

‘Almost… I’ve been saving. Had more jobs.’

‘I’ll deposit something now and then…’

‘You don’t have to do that…’

‘But I think I should. If you don’t want it anymore, cancel the account or ask the bank to block me…’

She lowered her gaze, fidgeting with her fingers on her knee. Her head told her to refuse. Pride, pain—everything screamed for her to sever whatever tie remained. 

But she said nothing.

He moved toward the door, his steps heavy, as if each one required more strength than the last.

‘Wait…’ Her voice came out hoarse, as if it emerged from a bruised place inside her chest.

He stopped in the middle of the room, still with his back turned.

Julielle disappeared down the hallway and returned holding a bag. She approached slowly and held it out to him, her fingers trembling.

‘What’s this?’

‘Your things… the ones you left here. Maybe you missed them.’

Dennian looked inside the bag.

‘None of this… I didn’t miss any of it. What I truly miss…’

His voice cracked there, choked. A sharp sound escaped his throat—like a wounded sigh, a lament.

Julielle, her eyes clouded, watched as the tears slid down his face.

Then he turned to the door...

Before crossing it, he looked back.

‘I’m sorry, Juli…’ he said in a breath, as if that were all he had left.

The door closed gently behind him, as if the very gesture signified an ending.

She stood there, frozen in the middle of the room. Not knowing what to do.

Her body shook with sobs that came loud, raw, impossible to hold back.

There was no point in running after him—and even if she wanted to, she couldn’t.

Her legs no longer felt like her own.

She collapsed to her knees on the floor, clutching herself in her own agony.

The sunlight filtering into the apartment proved that life went on outside.

Inside her, however, everything felt like it was dying…

Dennian had returned only to leave her like this—with a cruel and fragile thread of hope, for something that might never come to be.

She loved him with every part of herself… and, at the same time, hated him.

Hated him for the feeling that he had drawn something vital from her to keep himself going, and in return, had injected into her a single, but potent, drop of poison.

Enough to consume her, to devastate her from the inside out.

A poison for which, for now, there was no antidote.

Only uncertainty…