Solar Cruise

The ocean outside the window was calm. Seagulls flew overhead. Rarely, I could spot something happening in the water. Either birds diving for fish, or the fish themselves, bored in the depths, jumping for a moment to show the world their shiny scales.

Sometimes I marveled at how keen and sharp my eyes were.

It seemed like the cruise liner I had been traveling on alone for two weeks was enormous. More like an entire city on water. My cabin alone was something else—it was only slightly smaller than my apartment.

The balcony suited me perfectly.

There was nothing here that reminded me I was supposed to share this cabin. No crowds luring me to parties, orgies, or dances. No questions. No stupid feeling gnawing somewhere inside—shame, regret, or who knows what else.

Here, I was finally alone.

And I didn’t have to enlighten myself, pretend, meditate, seek feedback or meanings unknown even to me.

I was just alone.

Alone with the vast ocean, the fish, the birds, and the endless black hole beneath my heart.

I woke at three in the morning and waited for a long time until the laughter, voices, and slamming doors finally died down. But that was a task with a star.

Such was the cruise.

A cruise for love, discoveries, encounters, and all the pleasures the body could bring.

I had no judgments, no convictions about that. My parents had given me this opportunity for exactly that reason—to explore boundaries and boundless pleasures. They gave it, expecting me not to go alone.

Everyone expected me to make that choice.

And she expected it too.

But here I was. Five a.m. Silence in the corridor. And my hungry body.

I quietly peeked out of my room and closed the door behind me as softly as I could. I had to nudge aside a stack of letters—invites to dates. Someone had even stuck a colorful poster on the door.

Everyone wanted to rid me of loneliness.

I moved like a cat walking to the kitchen at night.

I had to pass through the grand hall. It was quiet, but not empty.

Here and there lay naked bodies, exhausted from a night of excess and pleasure. Especially near the decorative fireplace, there were many bodies. Arms, legs, torsos. It looked like one enormous organism.

It wasn’t immediately clear which body part belonged to whom.

I fought the urge to put a pillow under the head of a blonde girl. She had twisted it so unnaturally that she would wake up with a stiff neck.

Unable to resist, I returned and tucked a pillow under her head.

She opened her eyes for a moment, pupils huge, and gave a crooked smile. Viscid saliva dribbled from her mouth.

She was on something.

I didn’t judge her. That was my world. We explored and accepted all the pleasures of the body—through, by, and for the sake of enjoyment.

What was wrong with me then? What was broken inside me?

The dining hall was quiet.

Not just quiet—ugly quiet.

And worst of all—it didn’t smell like food.

This was the first time.

I had come here before, expecting to eat alone, and warm trays of breakfast would usually be ready, steaming with aroma.

But not today.

Well, I’m not dirty. I’ll go to the kitchen.

The kitchen was huge. Not especially clean, but no one complained about poisonings.

I approached the cabinet. Most likely, it was a refrigerator.

Bingo.

Opening it, I grabbed everything I wanted and apologized loudly.

No one.

Strange.

Posters hung in several places on the wall:

“Captain’s Birthday. Everyone must come and drown in the pleasure and joy of this mortal world.”

Well, that explained all those people in the main hall.

What a panic it would be when the passengers wake up and don’t see breakfast.

Oh well. Not my problem.

I’ll grab enough food to linger in my room longer—far from people, close to myself and the noisy seagulls.

My day passed as usual.

Like a prisoner in old novels.

In my world, no one was imprisoned anymore. You could only read about it. I think there, a prisoner’s room was smaller. And definitely not so colorful.

Though no one wrote about that.

Only that you could never leave those prisons.

My world isn’t like that.

If someone gets into trouble, they try to understand. Talk.

Plus, the online constitution constantly updates in real time.

Children in my world are taught empathy longer than algebra.

So prisons remained only in history.

I sighed sadly. I would’ve liked that. That very prison.

Because the cruise would soon end, and I’d have to return—to people.

I would probably be assigned a psychotherapist, family psychologist, communication specialist, energy guru… and God knows who else.

I didn’t want it. I was so afraid to go home. To my parents, who had admired since childhood that I was special, talented, that since school everyone had assumed—like I was too extraordinary to exist in this body, this gender, these thought limitations.

And I didn’t even know. I was more sensitive than my peers. Even for my world. A little more talented. But I never thought about love. Especially physical love. I had a friend. And I thought we were on the same wavelength. We loved reading, traveling, drawing. We liked the same songs. With him, it was easy. It seemed everyone else was right—and he was the one.

Then a girlfriend appeared.

And I was completely confused. In myself. In them.

Even my parents gave me this cruise to invite one of them—or both—and let our feelings fully unfold.

But when everyone expected the next step… I hesitated.

What if it wasn’t right? What if I wasn’t right? What if love wasn’t necessary at all? What if I could just stay in this room and float?

I was so comfortable with myself. People scared me. Even the closest and dearest. And the constant noise in my head. With myself, it was quieter.