We enter the room. Everything is in its place — neat, almost sterile, as if time has stopped here. And yet... something has changed. The air feels heavier. The space seems to remember everything that has happened here before, and now it silently whispers about it. I glance at the bed, and something stirs in my chest. For a second, my breath stops, and my heart seems to tighten.
The evening flashes before my eyes... the loud party in the dormitory, the smell of alcohol, laughter, snippets of conversations, neon light. And then — the silence of this room. Me and Katrin. We lie here, and damn it, I feel completely lost at this moment. She is so... unpredictable, strange. There is a depth in her eyes that I don't understand, and it is that which terrifies me to the bone. I look at her, and everything inside screams — a threat. It is like she is playing. Manipulating. Like she is... dangerous.
A liar? A cheat? God, how ridiculous and bitter it is to remember that now. I would gladly slap myself — that naive, blind idiot who is afraid to see the truth.
Because now I know.
My girl... she's real. So real it hurts to look at. Honest to the point of pain, vulnerable, but in that vulnerability — strength. The kind that breaks walls if you want to glimpse even a little into her soul. She isn't playing. Never. I just wasn't ready to see that back then. I didn't know how to look deeper.
But now I know. And even if it's too late — at least now I see her the way I should have from the very beginning.
"Max, can I talk to you for a minute?" Dima's voice pulls me from my thoughts. He is standing by the door, nervously tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. He clearly needs to gather his courage.
"Sure, I'll be right there."
I approach Katrin, who has already settled on the bed. Her eyes, as always, look directly at me, and I almost drown in their silence.
"I'll be by the door. We'll just talk, then head home. Okay?"
"Yes, of course."
I lean down and kiss her on the forehead. The warmth of her skin slightly soothes the strange feeling of anxiety that briefly rushes through my body.
Stepping into the hallway, I stop opposite Dima. He doesn't look as bold as he did a few minutes ago. A little confused, even embarrassed.
"Look... Max, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have barged in on you like that. It's just after Sveta — well, you get it, my mood is awful. I'm not really myself. Peace?" He extends his hand.
I shake it and even hug him. The familiar scent of men's cologne and the faint hint of cheap tobacco — that is Dima. The friend with whom we've been through a lot.
"I'm not upset, honestly. It's just... some things should stay between two people. You know what I mean?"
He nods, and something mature, thoughtful flickers in his gaze.
"Yeah. Got it. I act like a jerk, but by the time I decide to apologize, you'd already forgive me. How are you, buddy?"
I smile.
"I've got a really good nurse who gets me back on my feet quickly," I reply with a wink.
He immediately understands. Smiles, but without mockery.
"Well, of course. Ugh... Where can I find someone like that?"
"You want to go to the hospital too?" I can't resist teasing him.
"No way!" He waves his hands. "We'll manage without this place."
We both laugh. Lightly, sincerely, almost childishly. It is a good moment — real. No unnecessary words, no hidden meanings. Simple, warm, like a sunny spot on the floor on a cold day. No drama, no tension — just two people, two friends, standing in the hallway between what has already burned out and what is just starting to smolder with new hope. The future, though not bright, seems a little lighter for a moment.
We return to the room. And here it is — my reality. My girl sits on the bed. Arms crossed, her gaze turned away, with an expression that mixes irritation, exhaustion, and perhaps a hint of jealousy. She is waiting. I feel it almost physically — the tension in the air, the tautness of her posture, the heaviness of her silence. She clearly doesn't like that the visit drags on. And everything inside me tightens — guilt, confusion, the way one warm moment turns into a cold one.
"Did you talk? Because I'm already ready to go home," she doesn't hide her emotions — and rightly so, there is nothing more to do here.
"Yes, babe. Let's go home."
We quickly gather our things and leave. No words, no long goodbyes — just movement, as if we are running away from something invisible but oppressive. At home, we are hit with exhaustion — real, sticky, accumulated over these days. Not the kind cured by a cup of coffee, but the kind that sinks into your bones and thoughts. Neither the TV nor the phone helps — they seem alien, unnecessary. All we want is silence. And warmth.
We eat in silence, as if every word has to be pulled out with effort. Then we go to bed early, like old people. No usual talks, no laughter, not even a "good night." Just — into bed. And we fall asleep, like the dead. No dreams, no awakenings. It is the first real rest in weeks. Sleep, where your body surrenders, and your mind finally stops spinning like a madman.
But then the morning... Oh yes, the morning is completely different.
I wake up before her. The room is half-dark, with soft light coming through the curtains. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, with a strange feeling — like everything inside is vibrating. Not anxiety, not worry... but rather — energy. It surges, pushing under my skin. I want to do something. I want to laugh, run, say nonsense. Just live.
Katrin is still sleeping — disheveled, warm, so alive in her defenselessness. She looks like a sleepy cat curled up in soft sheets. And even after our morning intimacy, filled with tenderness and quiet whispers, even after her fingers barely glide over my cheek, I remain on edge. Not from passion — no. It is something else. Like a lightbulb inside me has been switched on. Warm, burning light that whispers: live. Breathe. Move. Joke. Love.
And I can't suppress it.
At the institute, we take our usual places, as if everything in life has returned to its rails. The everyday routine — a reliable bulletproof vest, the usual mask, a way to hide everything inside that has been turned upside down.
Today we have the same professor, the one Katrin once ruthlessly and accurately joked about. Rebel Girl now yawns lazily, resting her cheek on her palm, her eyes full of quiet irritation and sleep deprivation. There is no spark in her anymore — only exhaustion and a desire to survive the day without a disaster.
And I am too cheerful. Damn, obnoxiously alive. Like someone has turned the happiness dial inside me to the max. I catch every little thing — the light in the window, the sound of the pen on paper, even the annoying cough of a classmate suddenly seems funny.
The world has become interesting again. I am myself again — or the person I dream of being.
Dima comes up to us, plopping down next to me with a loud thud, as if expressing all the horror of boredom in the lecture hall.
"How's it going here?" he asks, crossing his legs and looking disdainfully at those around us.
"Boring. I want to do something crazy," I mutter, scanning the room. Everyone sits in the same sleepy stupor, as if the night has passed under hypnosis, and no one has the energy to even move.
"And?" Dima urges, frowning. "Got any plans? It's really like a morgue here, and soon we'll die like sleepy flies."
My eyes suddenly land on a bucket of water in the corner, next to an old mop. And at that moment, an idea flashes in my head, like lightning, burning and crazy.
"I have an idea," I say, standing up and heading for the bucket, keeping the bright idea close in my mind.
"Max, where are you going?" Katrin asks, her voice wary, and a characteristic raised eyebrow appears on her face, signaling worry. But I just smile mysteriously and remain silent, feeling the light adrenaline rush through me.
The bucket contains water — murky, with a faint smell of something not quite fresh. And that only makes everything more intriguing. I take the bucket, grab a chair, and slowly open the door. Setting up the trap carefully above the entrance, I feel that familiar thrill. A typical prank, but… damn, how long have I wanted to do something like this.
Katrin, arms crossed, looks at me with pleading eyes.
"Max, don't do this!" Her voice is full of concern, and she moves toward me as if trying to stop something that can't be undone.
I know she isn't acting out of malice — she's just worried. But I've always wanted to cross that line at least once. My whole life, I've been the "good boy," and sometimes I feel poisoned by that image. But those guys, the ones who do stupid things without fear or regret… part of me wants to do that at least once, even though I won't admit it to myself.
"Take it down, before it's too late…" she repeats, already climbing toward the chair to stop everything.
But it's too late. Voices come from outside the door.
"Just a couple of minutes, Sergey Petrovich. I'll just announce the competition and…"
We quickly run back to our seats, as there is no time to fix anything now.
And then…
THWACK!
The dirty water splashes at the entrance, unleashing an atmosphere of desperate fun that is forever lost as the bucket tips over. First — the water, foul and unpleasant. Then — the bucket, heavy and thudding loudly as it hits the head of the person entering.
The whole class bursts into laughter, some almost falling off their chairs, others gasping for air from laughing. I see how some of the guys try to cover their mouths to hide their laughter, but their faces still beam with delight.
But I don't laugh. And neither does Katrin.
My heart squeezes when I see who has been hit. It's the rector. For a moment, I feel like the ground has slipped from under me. Right in front of him stands our teacher, who also gets splashed. The rector, standing in the puddle of water, lifts his head and looks at me. I try to show an apologetic expression, but my mouth won't cooperate.
The laughter in the class dies down as if someone has turned off the sound. I freeze. This is the worst thing that could have happened.