I bought this apartment a year ago from the new owners who had moved in after Katrin. It was important for me to reclaim it—not just a space of concrete and glass, but a piece of the past, infused with her scent, her voice, her laughter, lost within these walls. I knew she had once been here, that every corner of this apartment was familiar to her, and even in the empty rooms, I tried to feel her presence.
When I started earning decent money at the company, I made a decision—I borrowed a little more from my father and opened my own nightclub. The business turned out to be profitable, and, for me, very convenient. Especially if you needed somewhere to drown your thoughts in a glass, hide from reality under the roar of music, and then fall asleep right there, knowing you were safe. Grandpa Vi also worried less now, knowing where I was. But this club, everything I was creating, everything I was building, was for her. She was the inspiration, even though she wasn't around.
But, to be honest, I opened the club because of her. Because of Rebel Girl. Because of her passion for nightlife, for those places where the lights flicker like her eyes in a moment of joy, and the music roars like her laughter. I started going to the places she had once frequented, trying to spot traces of her—in the dim light, in the shadow by the bar, in a stranger's glance. I imagined how she danced, how she raised an eyebrow when teasing me. I remembered… and drank. That club was the place where she had left a piece of herself, and I tried to keep her there, even if only in memories.
Six months later, I had completely repaid my father. Then I proposed an idea to Grandpa Vi. We often work together in his workshop, and I notice that after repairs, he always has a bunch of leftover parts. I have an acquaintance at university who can make websites, and I suggest, "Why not sell the parts online?" People were looking for them anyway, especially for old models, for which almost nothing could be found. The plan worked. The website started running—and orders began to come in. They still do. We even started going to auto markets, buying rare parts and adding them to the catalog. Vi was delighted and didn't know how to thank me. But I simply said: consider this my gratitude for everything you did for me when Katrin left.
Gradually, life began to normalize. I studied, and quite successfully—I was among the top in my course, winning competitions, representing our university. The team treated me with respect; many even sought friendship. But I, like Rebel Girl, felt that true friends were rare. Apart from Vi, I had no one really close. The others were just good acquaintances. I couldn't believe how quickly everything had changed, but even in these moments of success, a void remained inside me, and at some point, I realized it wasn't achievement—just a way to distract myself.
Work is steady, the business is growing, the club is thriving. No problems arise. Income keeps coming. And in my free time, I still help Vi. It feels as if I am driving myself into routine, into endless busyness—to avoid thinking, not feeling, not missing her so acutely, just living. As best as I can. But in every moment, even amidst all the tasks, her image is with me. And I know—if I wait, she will return.
But inside, I feel dead. Nothing brings joy, and I do everything on autopilot, because it is necessary, because there is no strength to resist. My soul, like a shadow, wanders, devoid of meaning, and my heart, trampled by time and pain, can't find its place. It only comes alive in moments when messages from her arrive through Grandpa Vi. Only then do I feel that I am still alive, that she is somewhere near. But even these moments, filled with her presence, bring pain—the pain of how far away she is, how unattainable.
Now, sitting in this apartment, I close my eyes and try to imagine her here, beside me. I see her walking toward me, her smile lighting up everything around, and her lips, warm and familiar, touching mine. But when I open my eyes, there is only emptiness before me. A place that would be full if she were here. And that feeling of emptiness tears through me like the edge of a knife, a sense that something is missing, that even the air has grown heavy. My heart dies again. Without her, everything seems dull and meaningless, like in gray tones, where there is no light and life.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates. I look—it is a message from Vi. He has sent me a video from Katrin. I freeze, not believing my eyes. I open it, and there she is, my beloved, smiling at me from the screen. Her face is so alive, so real, that for a moment, I feel her presence beside me. It seems she is right there, so familiar and vivid, just like those days. But still—it is only an illusion. All that remains is the screen and her voice, but I am ready to drown in that moment, just to feel her again.
"Hi, Grandpa Vi. We haven't seen you in a long time. Come visit us, we all miss you…" Her voice is so warm and bright that I can feel it even through the screen. It is like a gentle touch to the soul, a ray of light piercing the darkness of my life.
Katrin looks into the camera, and I can't look away. The same—just as beautiful as before. The same facial features, the familiar curve of her lips, the same eyes in which one could easily drown. But there is also a difference. Elusive, subtle, yet noticeable. As if before me is not just a person from the past, but a new incarnation of her, grown from pain, time, and experience.
Her hair no longer has red streaks — now it is its natural color, softly framing her face as if highlighting her calmness. Instead of a black leather jacket and ripped jeans, she wears a cozy multicolored sweater and loose, light-colored pants. She looks different, but not worse. The audacious Rebel Girl I once knew is gone, replaced by softness, warmth, a kind of bright serenity. That inner silence, which wasn't there before, now lives in her gaze. And because of that, she becomes even deeper, even more real.
I watch her — so familiar and yet so new at the same time — and try to grasp that three years have passed. Three years without her. Three years during which I search for her in other faces, in streets, in dreams. And here she is — in front of me again. And no matter how much she has changed on the outside, inside — she is still the same. Only now — grown up. And perhaps even more beautiful. Because now she carries something greater. Something that cannot be explained in words. Only felt. Only loved again.
The video cuts off. I play the next one, unwilling to break this moment. It seems that if I press pause, not only the image but that subtle sense of her presence, which has filled the room, will disappear. My heart thuds heavily and unevenly, and a strange warmth settles in my chest — fragile, almost painful, as if my body doesn't know how to handle this sudden surge of feelings.
She appears on the screen again — calm, radiant, with a slight smile, as if speaking to me personally, as if these words were recorded just for me. Katrin tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looks away for a moment, and, sighing, begins to speak. Her voice is soft, filled with that special hint of tenderness.
"That's how things are with us. Say hi to Vera. Don't forget to take care of my Max."
I freeze. My heart tightens — sharply, intensely, as if her words pierce through my skin and strike the most vulnerable spot. My Max. She still calls me that… After all these years. Across the distance. Across everything that has been between us and is no longer. That phrase — simple, fleeting — breaks a dam inside me. I grip my phone tighter, as if afraid it will slip from my hands and take her voice away forever.
Meanwhile, she continues, unaware of the storm raging inside me.
"Alright, I'm being called, I have to go. Bye. Kisses."
She blows a kiss to the camera, and I, like a fool, lean closer to the screen, as if I could catch that kiss with my lips, as if I could reach her across the boundaries of reality. The video cuts off, and I am left alone with the hollow silence, the throbbing pain in my temples, and that sharp, defenseless feeling of love rising in me again, like a tide, like an obsession. The video has been cut, as Vi said, so I won't see what he doesn't want me to see.
That feeling — that she is so close, yet everything remains so far away. I feel my hands start to shake, and the pain grips my chest.
I cry. Hot tears roll down my cheeks as I realize that my little one, even not being near, hasn't forgotten me. She has asked Grandpa Vi to take care of me, and that is the truest gift for me, strange as it might be. I am happy. Happy because she still remembers, because she still cares. It is like an oasis in the desert, like rain after a long drought.
I am so grateful to see her, even just through video, to hear her voice, to feel her presence again. Rebel Girl has mentioned me, and those moments are a true breath of life for me. For I have felt dead, existing in this void, and only come back to life for a while when I see her, even if only through the screen. But even that short moment is everything. My heart begins to beat a little faster, not wildly, but at least somehow. I feel alive again.
I quickly type a message and send it:
"Thank you, Vi."
No sooner have I done that than the doorbell rings. Rising from the sofa, I go to the door. I don't know who it is, but a strange anxiety creeps into my soul. Opening it, I see her.
"You could've at least said you were here, I already searched for you!" her voice sounds slightly annoyed, but I see in her eyes that warmth I have long missed.
I sigh silently and, unable to hold back my emotions, let her into the apartment.