Ivan Kniaziev – What Remains After Goodbye (страница 4)
“You look different here,” she said.
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“More real,” she replied. “Less like you might disappear if I blink.”
He considered that. “Is that good?”
“I think so,” she said. “It feels honest.”
He took a sip of his coffee. It was strong and bitter in a way that felt grounding.
“You don’t,” he said, surprising himself. “You don’t feel like you’d disappear.”
Mira tilted her head. “No?”
“No,” he repeated. “You feel like someone who leaves on purpose.”
She laughed softly, then stopped. Her eyes searched his face, as if checking whether he meant it.
“Sometimes,” she said. “But not always.”
They talked about small things first. The bookstore next door. The strange art on the café walls. The way time moved differently indoors.
Then, without either of them deciding to, the conversation shifted.
Mira traced the edge of her cup with one finger. “Why did you say your life was temporary?”
Ethan didn’t answer right away.
He looked at the table between them – the scratch marks, the faded wood – and thought about how much he usually hid behind explanations.
“I moved a lot,” he said finally. “Not just places. Roles. Versions of myself. Every time I started to settle, something changed. Or I changed.”
Mira listened without interrupting.
“I thought if I kept things temporary,” he continued, “it wouldn’t hurt when they ended.”
“And did it work?”
He smiled faintly. “No.”
She nodded, as if that was exactly the answer she expected.
“I used to think permanence was a trap,” she said. “Like if you stayed too long, you’d lose yourself.”
“And now?”
“Now I think leaving can do that too.”
Ethan watched her closely. There was no drama in her voice. No performance. Just a quiet honesty that made him feel oddly safe.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “Some days. Other days, I think regret is just memory asking for attention.”
He liked that. He didn’t know why – only that it settled somewhere deep.
They finished their drinks slowly.
Outside, the sky had shifted toward afternoon. People passed the window in fragments – coats, hands, umbrellas.
Mira closed her notebook and stood.
“Do you want to walk?” she asked.
Ethan nodded.
They stepped outside, the air colder now, sharper against their faces. They walked without direction at first, letting the streets choose for them.
At some point, Mira stopped in front of the bookstore.
“Have you been inside?” she asked.
“No.”
She smiled. “Then we should fix that.”
Inside, the store smelled like dust and ink. The shelves leaned slightly, heavy with books that had been touched too many times to be pristine.
Mira moved slowly, running her fingers along spines as if greeting old friends.
Ethan watched her from a distance. She looked different among the books – softer, more focused. Like this was a place where she didn’t need to explain herself.
She pulled a book from the shelf and held it up.
“This one,” she said. “It’s not very popular. But it stays with you.”
He took it from her hands. “What’s it about?”
She shrugged. “That depends on when you read it.”
He smiled. “You’re good at avoiding summaries.”
“It’s a skill,” she said.
They wandered until the light outside began to fade again.
At the register, Mira hesitated before stepping forward.
“You don’t have to buy it,” she said quietly. “I just wanted to show you.”
“I want it,” Ethan replied.
She looked at him, something unreadable flickering across her face.
Outside again, they stood close – closer than they had been before – the book tucked under his arm like a small promise.
Mira shifted her weight.
“I should go,” she said.
Ethan felt the familiar instinct to hold onto the moment, to ask for more than it was ready to give. He didn’t.
“Okay.”
She hesitated, then reached out and adjusted the collar of his coat without thinking. The touch was brief, almost accidental.
Almost.
“I’m glad you texted,” she said.
“So am I.”
She stepped back, giving him space.
“See you again?” he asked.
She smiled – that quiet, honest smile.