Beautiful Bullets

I found myself back at Zurich Airport, waiting. The familiar hum of travelers, the routine rhythm of announcements, hadn’t changed. And yet, it felt different. Time had a way of smoothing over the sharp edges of memories, blurring them just enough to keep them out of reach.

She returned to me as if years had never passed, right at the same gate next to the small bookstore. The bookstore wasn’t much - more of a kiosk, a temporary structure forgotten maybe in renovations and updates, layers of sterile empty spaces. And as if her shadow was trapped there between collections of crossword, mints, and looming volumes of political biographies.

Perhaps this is what architecture of our memories looks like - clean organised spaces with forgotten aisles of encounters. It’s a peculiar feeling, remembering. We often forget how memories feel: their touch, their weight. One can catch their scent in the midst of the overpriced airport coffee, jet fuel and duty-free perfume.

It had been years ago, five, maybe more, I cannot say for certain. Time did not feel as important then, at least not the way it is now. I didn’t remember her much until now. Just small details, like the olive green coat and the way she spoke about her life. Equal parts deeply melancholic and clinically observant.

She stood near the gate, fiddling with a strange keychain—two bullets strung together on a metal ring.

“Bullets?” I asked. “Don’t they give you trouble at the security check?”

“Yeah, not as much as you think, but I do get sideyes here and there. They’re harmless, just casings.”

“How did you get them?”

“As kids, we used to collect them. They were everywhere. Dad used to bring them back from the front line. Then, I don’t remember who started it, but someone began turning them into keychains, pens, even little model tanks. Tourists buy them in the old town now. It’s bizarre.”

It wasn’t the first time that day she made me feel like an idiot. Of course, she was just a kid during the war in the 90s. I remembered hearing about it from my parents’ living room. It was almost every day on the news, places which I cannot remember nor dare to pronounce. I only remember it was horrible. I don’t know what those places look like today.

“Why do you carry it?”

“I don’t really know. A reminder of where I come from. Memento of my dad. Conversation starter. I guess it comes in handy to play with when flights are delayed.”

“Yeah, it seems like we’re stuck here for some time.”

“Looks like it.”

I couldn’t really tell if she was up for a conversation or if she was just polite.

She was reading a book. I see it up on the last shelf at the forgotten airport bookstore. The Unbearable Lightness of Being. What a strange title. I never read it. But as I see it now on the shelf I can see it clearly in her hands, white covers, doodle of a dog and a scribbled title.

She glanced up, smiling faintly. “Most people haven’t. It’s one of those you keep meaning to read and then forget about.”

“Why are you reading it, then?”

Her fingers grazed the edge of the cover. “I read it once, a long time ago. I didn’t love it then, but it stuck with me. Now I read it every year. It’s like checking in with an old friend. Everyone close to me has read it at some point. Some liked it, some didn’t, but it became this strange thread of connection. I think it’s less about the book and more about the conversations it creates.”

“Have those conversations changed your mind about it?”

“Not really,” she said. “But they’ve changed how I think about myself.”

The announcement crackled, our flight was rescheduled for tomorrow, and a collective groan echoed through the gate. Contagious like a yawn or a smile. She closed her book with a resigned sigh, glancing at the boarding screen.

“Typical,” she murmured, not to me, but loud enough to be shared. I nodded.

The airline staff began distributing overnight kits and room keys, a procession of weary travellers queuing for their temporary exile.

We picked up our bags and walked a short distance across the terminal to the airport hotel. Such a sterile place. Built as if you should not stay there for more than one night. Luckily it was not the capsule room I had last time I was here.

“Looks like we’re neighbours,” she said, holding up her key. I helped her get the bag into the elevator.

“You travel often?” I asked, breaking the quiet.

“Often enough to stop noticing airports,” she replied, not looking at me but at her key, spinning it lightly between her fingers.

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I fully understood.

“Would you like to grab dinner?” I don’t remember who asked. But in a few minutes we were in the dimly lit hotel bar. I ordered a negroni, she had a margarita. Our burgers were tasteless but the drinks were decent enough.

We danced around the usual topics—work, where we were headed. She had been to Zurich often. “My job takes me everywhere,” she said, vague enough. “And nowhere I want to stay.”

Her laugh came suddenly, unbidden, when I told her about the time I’d gotten lost on my first solo trip abroad. “You’re brave,” she said. “To keep travelling after that.”

“It’s not bravery. I just like not knowing where I’m going sometimes.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “I spend so much time leaving places, I think I’ve forgotten how to arrive.”

“How did you find yourself living abroad?” I asked.

“I left Sarajevo when I was 18,” she said. “It wasn’t even about the war anymore; it was about how small everything felt. You know what I mean?”

“Maybe. But I think I stayed small, in a way. Never left what felt familiar. I live in the same house my parents used to live in.”

She studied me for a moment. “I don’t think anyone stays small. Sometimes we just hide the bigger parts of ourselves.”

She asked questions that caught me off guard. “Do you think you’re the same person you were ten years ago? Or even five?”

“Not really,” I said. “But I don’t know if I’ve changed for the better.”

She tilted her head, studying me with the same look a mother would give to a child’s drawing - fond but seeing something I couldn’t. “I don’t think it’s about better or worse. People shed pieces of themselves, like skin. It’s just what happens.”

“Do you believe people are meant to stay?” I asked.

“In one place? With one person?” she replied. “No, I don’t think we’re built for permanence. That’s not the same as saying it’s bad. Some things are meant to last a while, and that’s enough.”

The bar emptied slowly, passengers retreating to their rooms. We stayed. She played with the bullet keychain absently, letting it spin, the metal catching the dull light.

She told me more about her father, how he used to bring her bullet casings from the war, a gesture she only understood years later. “It was his way of saying he cared,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with something I couldn’t quite place. “Even if it was wrapped in something violent.”

“Did it work?” I was unsure if I was treading too close to something sacred.

“Sometimes,” she said, spinning the bullet keychain absently. “Other times, it just reminded me that care wasn’t enough to shield us from the mess of it all.”

I leaned back into my chair.

“Do you like travelling?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she thought out loud. “Or maybe I just like the idea of being untethered. There’s something freeing about not belonging anywhere.”

“Or terrifying,” I countered, her lips curled into a faint smile.

“In a way,” she said, “everywhere I go, I’m a slightly different person. A version of me for every city, every encounter.” She paused, thoughtful. “But none of them ever feel entirely true.”

“It’s funny,” I replied, “how we’re so desperate to define ourselves, to pin down who we are, when maybe we’re just meant to be… fluid. Like water.”

“Or bullets,” she said, holding up her keychain. “Small, fast, and constantly ricocheting.”

She laughed, the kind of laugh that’s a little too honest, a little too raw.

When the staff finally began locking up, we made our way to the elevator. I asked her to come to my room. She nodded, and I opened the door.

The room was simple, almost clinical, but the way she moved in it made it feel warmer. She set her book down on the bedside table and poured two small glasses from the minibar.

We sat on the edge of the bed, our knees nearly touching.

“Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time?” she asked, staring into her glass.

“Sometimes. But other times, I feel like time’s running out on me,” I said. “Like it’s slipping past, and I’m just… watching.”

She nodded. “I think that’s why I read this book every year. It’s not about understanding it—it’s about remembering who I was the last time I read it. It’s like anchoring myself to something, even if that something keeps changing.”

She handed me the book, the spine cracked and soft from years of use. I traced the scribbled title with my thumb. “So what do you think of it?”

She smiled. “I think it’s like a mirror. It doesn’t tell you anything about itself—only what you bring to it.”

She looked at me as if that was a question, not a statement.

The room became quiet except for the occasional hum of an airplane overhead. I looked at her, her features softened by the lamp on the nightstand. I thought this is how memories are created.

Her lips were soft, I think. I saw very clearly a slight hint of freckles in her face. I could count them. There was no rush, we had all the time in the world. Perhaps it finally caught up with us. Here in the airport hotel room.

I blinked into the dim light of the hotel room, still groggy.

“You’re leaving already?” I asked.

She smiled faintly. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

I wanted to say something, but my thoughts were heavy, tangled with sleep.

She paused, her silhouette framed by the door. “I think I’ll remember you,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “Not forever, but for a while, certainly.”

And then she was gone.

I heard my flight being called. The gate was changed, and I had to go to the other side of the airport. I paid quickly and hurried over to queue up for boarding.

As I buckled up, I opened the book and started reading. “The idea of eternal return is a mysterious one...”

I took a pen from my pocket, giggling, and drew a small bullet above the lines.

Beautiful.