I CAN BE

October 17th. I watch the balconies across the square, illuminated by the soft light spilling from the apartments. Everything is still; neighbors are quietly tucked away in their little nooks. I don’t know a single one of them—this is a massive complex, and no familiar face appears.

I let my gaze drift across the concrete-and-brick facade. Fourth floor, first balcony from the right: a shadow stirs behind the curtain, forming a human silhouette. He sinks languidly into a woven chair, one foot stretching toward the empty water dispenser bottle at the balcony’s edge. Stillness settles again.

I bend to the pizza box I had left cooling on a bench in the square, tear off a slice with little interest, and glance up at the balcony as I take the first bite. A faint light plays across his face—phone light, naturally. I sneeze aloud, and his attention shifts to me. He stirs in the chair, leans on the railing, watching me with an odd, penetrating gaze. I watch; he watches. Silence. I sneeze again. I watch. He watches. Half of him is bathed in lamplight, half remains in shadow. I watch. He watches. Now the gaze holds a quiet reproach.

I take another bite. I watch. He watches. Silence. I sneeze again.

“Bless you,” he says, voice edged with dry irony. I swallow awkwardly and nod my thanks.

“Hungry?” I tilt the pizza slice toward him. He touches the corner of his mouth, thoughtful. Nods, mimicking my movement, and drifts back into the apartment through the curtain.

I return the half-eaten slice to the box, unenthusiastically. Rising from the chair, I pull a pack of cigarettes from one pocket and a lighter from the other. I light up. Silence. I begin scanning the other balconies, shifting my weight from one foot to the other out of boredom. Nothing beats a cigarette after eating—though this hardly felt like eating. I hadn’t even enjoyed it.

Footsteps on the wet pavement make me tense. I don’t look; I already know it’s him. He knows I know. Ten steps away, he speaks:

“Cold enough, or still worth eating?”

Judge for yourself. I step aside, enveloped in cigarette smoke. I hand over the box. He takes a slice, bites, and groans.

“Going?”

“Thanks,” I nod.

We stand side by side.

“You should’ve worn something warmer,” he says casually, voice calm, still gnawing at the slice.

“I wasn’t planning to be outside all night,” I reply, exhaling smoke away from him.

“So what were you planning?” He turns toward me, questioning, and I mimic the movement. I take in his face: taller than me, probably a head taller. Dark hair, slightly long, eyes the color of which I cannot tell. Athletic, hinted at through a thin sweater and track pants. A light layer of stubble along the jaw and cheeks. Just as I imagined.

“I don’t know…” I pause. “Sitting at home, warm, eating, maybe watching something until I fall asleep.” I tilt my head and meet his gaze.

“And why did you decide that eating in the damp and spying on others was better?” He has observed me too, mimicking my movements, watching with a sidelong glance.

“I didn’t decide… I had no other choice.” I toss the cigarette into the bin and pick up my phone. I know it’s set down, but I check again, unconsciously, making sure nothing changed. The key is still at home. I indicate silently that it’s set. “That’s how it went… at least I still have food.”

He studies me.

“What next?” he asks, squinting.

“I’ll walk to someone’s place,” I think of neighbors nearby, “just walk.”

“I can charge your phone,” he offers, testing me.

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Come on.” He lifts the pizza box and heads toward the building. I follow silently. He opens the entrance and gestures me in. Five minutes later, we step into the fourth-floor corridor. He opens the apartment door and waves me inside. Warm air hits my skin. Only now do I feel how cold it was outside. I stand in the hall, waiting for directions, while he moves toward the common room. Realizing I’m not following, he turns toward me with a questioning look. I glance at the slippers by the wardrobe.

“You can put these on,” he gestures. I comply.

In the common room, he rummages through a cabinet and retrieves a charger. I hand over my phone.

“Sit,” he says, taking the phone and gesturing toward the sofa. He finds the empty plug and connects the charger.

I sit, first watching my reflection in the dark TV screen, then looking at him. Silence stretches between us until something flickers in his gaze.

“I’ll make tea,” he says quickly, turning without waiting for an answer.

We don’t speak; I wait. Only the soft clatter of utensils and water boiling fills the space.

Minutes later, we sit on opposite ends of the sofa, hands wrapped around steaming cups. Silence.

“You can stay,” he breaks the quiet, eyes lifting from the cup to me. “Call a repairman in the morning,” he adds, still testing.

I check my wrist, but the watch is at home. I glance at the table clock—past one.

“If it’s not uncomfortable…” I trail off, watching his face.

“It won’t be,” he says, placing the cup down and standing. A few moments of silence, then he gestures toward the TV. “If you want to watch something, you can.” The cup is gone, back in the kitchen.

Noticing my hesitation, he turns on the TV. “Find something, I’ll be back.”

I flip channels lazily. Soon footsteps approach, handing me dark clothing.

“The bathroom is to the left,” he gestures toward the entrance.

I take the clothes silently and enter. Half-heartedly, I strip off my shirt and jeans, pulling a large soft hoodie over my nearly bare body. Warm, with a pleasant scent. I fold my clothes and place them on an empty shelf outside. Return to the sofa. He flips channels as I did moments ago.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks, not stopping.

“Anything.”

“Same here.”

We settle into an unknown film from a random scene. No interaction—just the TV. Gradually, I sink into the room’s warmth. The actors’ monotonous dialogue lulls me toward sleep.

I wake. Dark. Lamplight filters through the curtain, painting the furniture in soft streaks. Hands braced, I rise from the bed. I’m in the bedroom, wrapped in a warm blanket—not alone. On the edge of light and shadow, I notice a curled silhouette beside me, sleeping. My mouth is dry. I creep toward the kitchen. A small blinking light guides me. Leaning on the counter, I fumble for a glass. Strange warmth spreads across my face—I realize the hoodie is still over my head. I open the fridge, scanning for water. Found. I grab a cold bottle, struggling to open it. Screw-top bottles are never easy. I place it on the counter, preparing for another attempt.

As I reach, the bottle moves. I flinch. I’m not alone. I feel a body close behind me, turning is awkward. He opens the bottle, drinks, returns it to the counter, slowly closes the fridge, and darkness returns. Awkward. I turn toward the familiar silhouette.

“I thought you were asleep,” I murmur, trying to catch his gaze in the dark.

Silence. I step sideways through the narrow space between us. He blocks the path. Headlights flash, briefly illuminating my face, then his back. A cool touch grazes my right cheek. I shiver; my facial muscles tense. His hand traces my jaw, slides through my hair, rests firmly on my neck. I feel my face heat, pushed closer by his fingers. Breath mingles with mine. Pressed together. The chill of his fingers warms and swirls like the breath on my face.

My heart races toward a kiss. The switch clicks—the light comes on. A sharp, irritated voice cuts through.

“What are you doing?” Not his voice. I snap toward the bedroom corridor. There he stands, disheveled. Instinctively, I turn back to the body still watching me. Another person. I know him, but not the one who opened the door. I pull my hand back, feeling his gaze follow me as I move toward my host.

“I’m leaving,” I cut short, reaching for my clothes. His arm slips over mine, pressing me slightly against him. His gaze, still fixed on the figure near the kitchen, is intense. Then it shifts to me; the anger is not mine.

“Not kissed yet?!” mocks the uninvited visitor. His gaze snaps to my host, arm tightens.

“That’s enough. We’ll talk in the morning,” my host says, looking at me, words belonging to the third person. Turns to the bedroom; I follow. Door closes, arm still holding me.

“My brother,” my host says briefly. “He comes sometimes.” I nod.

“Sorry,” I blurt, unthinking – “I thought it was you”

Awkwardness and shame envelop me.

“I can be—” he shoves me, pressing against the top of the wardrobe, mirroring the kitchen scene. One hand holds my face, the other my hip.

“What are you doing?” I push against his chest. Futile.

“I doubt you asked that in the kitchen,” he breathes on my face. “Let’s finish what we started,” and before I can react, he kisses me. I bite his lip, grab his hand, pushing him away. Unconsciously, I press his shoulder. Surprised, he laughs.

“Of course,” he agrees, still laughing.

I regain composure, hand on his shoulder, turning him slightly.

“Sorry, are you okay?” I ask, replacing hand on his cheek with mine. His eyes widen in surprise. I press closer. He didn’t expect the reversal. He presses me faster against his body, glancing at me once, then kisses me with more intensity than before—this time I respond with parted lips.