-Pherovicta-
Early in the morning, when the city was still asleep and the streetlights reflected on the wet pavement, I walked in alone. I remember that bar as if it exists outside of time. Inside, it was quiet, almost intimate: a faint lo-fi playing, the subtle sound of water trickling, the scent of lemons and fresh coffee. And there she was - the one who, in just a few seconds, changed my perception of the world.
She was cutting lemons. Every movement was precise, careful, almost ritualistic. I watched her hands split the fruit in half and felt a strange mix of calm and anxiety at the same time. In that moment, I wanted to be near, to observe, to breathe the same air, but I was only a silent witness.
Then she spoke. I cried. I cried when she spoke because I understood that this was her real pain, the pain she entrusted to the world for a few fleeting seconds. I cried because I saw the reflection of my own vulnerability, my inability to protect myself and others. I cried because it was a moment of incredible closeness, and I couldn’t hold it.
I wanted to look her in the eyes, but I couldn’t. Tears blurred my vision, my breath caught, my voice caught in my throat. I regret not holding that gaze - that she may have seen weakness in me instead of strength or understanding. I regret that this instant, when she could have felt something toward me, I failed.
I am grateful. Yes, grateful for this moment, even if it passed in a blink and will never repeat. Grateful that I could feel so deeply, that despite pain, tears, and scars, I am still alive, still able to feel and empathize. Grateful that I can notice beauty in small things: how someone carefully slices lemons, how an old piano chord brings me back to childhood, how the warm lamplight plays across her face.
I know she has someone. But that does not lessen the value of these minutes, nor what I experienced. I realized that true closeness does not always mean possession - sometimes it is enough just to witness, to feel.
Yet this encounter left its mark on my heart: a sense of vulnerability I will carry with me. A feeling that the world is simultaneously beautiful and dangerous, that trust is a luxury not easily given, that we are all alone, even when we are near others.
I am thankful to whoever watches over me - God, fate, the universe. Thankful that I exist, that my feelings exist, that I am capable of loving, suffering, marveling, and rejoicing. Thankful that despite constant setbacks, disappointments, and threats to my safety, I continue to move forward, continuing to feel.
And even if I never see her again, this moment will stay with me as proof that I can live and feel more deeply than many dare. It is a lesson in vulnerability, a lesson in human beauty and trust. And I carry it with me - a reminder that to feel is to live.
…
I just want to see no one right now, solitude feeling like the most eternal synonym for freedom. I’m lying again on the cold floor, without much reason, asking: please don’t call me, please don’t write. Today, I need to be at least a little alone. I don’t need any halves or all-for-one in four walls - I chase sleep in three directions. Either I realize that I am absolutely nothing, haven’t conquered even one of a hundred peaks, or I convince myself that I am one in a million, and somehow I need to be alone, one-on-one with myself.
