Tomasz Polus

Those summer nights

© Tomasz Polus, 2025

Julia is running away from the city, Lena is painting silence. Their meeting is no coincidence — it’s a choice. But when the past comes knocking, each of them will have to answer: can you love without conditions? Can intimacy withstand the truth?

ISBN 978-83-8431-226-1

Książka powstała w inteligentnym systemie wydawniczym Ridero

© Tomasz Polus, 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the prior

written permission of the author.

First English Edition

Distribution: Self Publishing

Prologue

I can’t say when it started.

Because there wasn’t a single moment. No flash, no seismic shift.

There was only the feeling that I didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Not to myself, and not to her.

I remember her hands — the way she set a mug on the table, without rush.

I remember the smell of incense that didn’t overwhelm, but just lingered in the background.

I remember the silence between us that didn’t hurt. It was like a soft blanket, not a wall.

I stayed. For a moment. To see.

Then I stayed longer.

Not because everything was easy. But because it was finally real.

I didn’t know then that not every love has to last to be fulfilled.

Sometimes the most important stories are the ones that allow you to return to yourself.

This story is about exactly that.

About a woman who loved so much that she didn’t have to hold on.

And about me — who for the first time didn’t run away, even when I left.

Chapter 1 — Stay with Meals

The rain had been falling since morning — not heavily, but as if it had no intention of stopping. Moisture clung to the bus window and to her skin. Julia looked at the blurred, drowsy green outside. No one got off until her stop. When the driver announced, “Dębki — end of the line,” she had no more excuses.

The bag was light. She had packed in silence, still at night. Dresses, a notebook, a book without a bookmark. No makeup, no plans. There was supposed to be no one here she knew, no one who knew her.

The guesthouse “At Maria’s” looked exactly as she expected — a shabby white house with balconies long overdue for replacement. Hydrangeas grew so densely in front of the entrance that she had to squeeze through. They smelled slightly sour, as if they had seen too much.

The door opened before she could knock.

“Ms. Julia? Room number three. It’s ready now,” said a short woman in a tightly buttoned sweater. “Breakfast from eight, dinner after seven. Nothing fancy, but homemade.”

Julia just nodded. She didn’t feel like talking. She climbed the creaky stairs, her bag brushing against the wall and leaving a streak of moisture. The room was small but warm. A rose-patterned bedspread, yellowed curtains, an old wardrobe with a crooked mirror. On the nightstand lay a note: “Stay with meals — 14 days. Room paid in advance. Enjoy your rest.”

She didn’t turn on the light. She sat on the bed and listened to the ticking clock from the corridor. She remembered how everything in her Warsaw apartment was quiet, dead. And here, in this provincial silence, the ticking clock suddenly sounded like proof of existence.

In the bathroom, she washed her face with cool water. The reflection in the mirror was pale, with shadows under her eyes and lips that hadn’t known laughter in a long time.

I am myself only when no one knows me, she thought.

She went down for dinner ahead of time. The dining room smelled of cooked vegetables and fried butter. The table was covered with a lemon-patterned oilcloth. A single place setting. A tomato with onion, eggs in mayonnaise, bread. Cherry compote. Suddenly it became quiet — almost too quiet.

And that’s when she walked in.

A girl with a jacket slung over her shoulder. Her hair was dark, long, and slightly damp from the drizzle. She wore no makeup, just a gaze that stopped everything. She stood in the doorway and looked at Julia for a moment. Without a word. Without a smile.

“Hi. Lena,” she said at last. “You’re the new one?”

“Julia,” she replied, surprised at how much she sounded like she was apologizing for her own existence.

Lena sat down without asking, close by. Their knees brushed lightly under the table. Julia flinched. Lena seemed not to notice, or perhaps she pretended not to. Her hands were long and strong, with chipped nail polish. She took a piece of bread and began to eat, as if she had known this house since childhood.

“Vacation or an escape?” she asked, chewing slowly.

Julia froze. The question… was too accurate.

“A rest,” she answered after a moment.

“Sure,” Lena smiled with the corner of her mouth. “You don’t really rest here. Here, you either find yourself again or you lose yourself.”

A moment of silence fell. Only the clinking of plates from the kitchen could be heard. The rain began to tap on the windows again, as if it didn’t want anything here to dry out.

“I paint,” Lena added, as if it were something unimportant. “And I help Mrs. Maria. In return, I get a room and a key to the wine. I’d be happy to show you around town. If you’re not afraid of people like me.”

“And what are you like?”

“Inconvenient,” she replied without blinking.

Julia smiled uncertainly. For the first time in a long time, she felt something under her skin. Not fear, not desire. Rather… electricity. A warning. A promise.

Chapter 2 — Don’t Ask Where I’m From

Julia woke up at six thirty for no reason. Her body felt heavy, as if something had pressed down on it during the night — maybe her thoughts, maybe a dream she couldn’t remember but which had left a mark. Her mouth was dry, and the image of Lena’s eyes was still in her head: dark, self-assured, and… brazenly close.

She took a deep breath. She went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. The reflection in the mirror was a woman who didn’t look thirty, nor did she look ready to start anything. Especially not over again.

Breakfast was served at eight. She came down at eight oh three. That’s how long it took her to choose a hoodie that didn’t look like an overly clean suit of armor.

Mrs. Maria was already by the stove. In the background, the radio hummed with the low voice of a weather reporter. Milk soup one day, eggs with dill the next. Today was the second day.

“Did you sleep?”

“So-so,” Julia admitted.

“That’s good. Too many people in this world sleep too well.”

Julia smiled, though she wasn’t sure if she had the right to. She sat at the table, placing a cup of compote in front of her as if it were a point of reference, something constant. And then… she walked in again.

Lena.

This time she wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a large, stretched-out T-shirt with the words „Gdynia 2003” that reached almost to her mid-thigh. Her feet were bare. Her hair was like it had been after a sleepless night — tousled, tangled, beautiful in its disarray.

Julia felt her heart do something strange. It didn’t beat faster. It beat slower. As if it was pausing to watch.

“Good morning, my favorite women,” Lena said with a smile, not entirely ironically. She walked past, her shoulder brushing Julia’s arm. “Sleepyhead.”

“Hi,” Julia replied, too quietly, too late.

“You don’t look rested. Rough night?”

“More like restless.”

“I had something gnawing at me inside, too,” Lena said, sitting down across from her. She watched. Without embarrassment. Without exaggeration. She just — watched.

Julia lowered her gaze to her mug.

“Where are you from?” she asked suddenly, without a plan.

Lena’s gaze shifted to somewhere beside her.

“Don’t ask where I’m from.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s a question from a textbook for conversations between people who are afraid to talk about what they’re really curious about.”

Julia didn’t know whether to stay on the topic or back off. But Lena continued.

“Ask what’s keeping me here. That’s more interesting.”

“Okay,” Julia said. “What’s keeping you here?”

Lena looked at her carefully. This time without a smile. As if in that single second she had truly revealed herself.

“The sea. Chance. And people who don’t want anything to do with me, but can’t stop looking.”

The silence that followed was thick, as if the air had changed its consistency.

Julia looked at her hands. Fingers smeared with paint, skin around her nails cracked. Every gesture of Lena’s was unhurried, but confident. As if she set the pace of reality.

“What about you?” Lena asked. “Are you from here?”

“No. From Warsaw.”

“That sounds like you’re from a document, not a place.”

Julia raised an eyebrow.

“And you’re from paintings?”

Lena smiled for the first time genuinely.

“No. But sometimes I hide in them.”

The clatter of a pot came from the kitchen. Mrs. Maria turned on the fan. The dining room grew cooler, but the space between them did not.

“Got any plans today?”

“None.”

“Good. Drop by this afternoon. I have something you should see.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“And what if I don’t come?”

Lena stood up. She stretched. The T-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a piece of her thigh, smooth and tanned.

“Then it’ll mean you’re more afraid of yourself than you are of me. And then I’ll know something about you too.”

She left her at the table.

Julia sat there for a few more minutes before she was able to drink the compote. It was too warm. Too sweet. As if someone had dissolved in it the promise of something that might happen — if she dared.

Chapter 3 — Wine, Salt, and Silence

In the afternoon, the sky looked like spilled milk. The sun was diffused, pale, but warm. Julia walked down a side street toward Lena’s gallery, trying not to look at herself in the windows of the houses she passed. She felt like she was heading toward something she couldn’t name. Maybe a meeting. Maybe a confession.

The gallery was in a garage. Except there was no car or concrete. The walls were painted white, with chips here and there, the ceiling had wooden beams, and inside was Lena’s world.

Paintings leaned against the walls. A dozen of them. Bodies, women, lines — everything soft, expressive, as if painted not with a hand but with a nerve. There was no decoration in them. There was a need.

Lena was standing by one of the walls with a glass of wine. She was wearing a black top and denim shorts. On her left thigh: a trace of paint. On her shoulder — a tattoo of a woman with her eyes tied. When Julia entered, Lena didn’t even flinch.

“You’re here,” she just said. “I was afraid you’d choose a safe walk on the beach instead.”

“The beach can wait,” Julia replied carefully. “And you said I had something to see.”

“I did.”

She walked over to a table with a bottle and poured a second glass. She handed the glass to Julia. Their fingers touched for a moment. Julia felt a familiar pang in her stomach — like when you want something, but you can’t say it out loud.

“Do you want me to start with questions or with looking?” Julia asked.

“We always start with looking. Questions are too noisy.”

Julia looked around slowly. One of the paintings caught her eye more than the others. A woman sitting on a chair, naked, with her head down and her hands clenched into fists. There was no face, just the back, shoulders, and neck. But still, she had the feeling she knew her.

“Who is she?”

“When I was painting her, I didn’t know. Then I realized she was someone I hadn’t met yet.”

Julia froze. She turned around. Lena was looking at her. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she wanted to add something, but held back.

“I like to look at people when they don’t know they’re being watched,” Lena added. “That’s when they’re real.”

“And what if someone doesn’t want to be real?”

“Then I don’t paint. Or I paint their silence.”

They moved further into the gallery. In the corner, there was a small couch covered with a thick blanket. Lena sat down, stretching her legs. Julia hesitated but sat beside her. Keeping her distance. One that could mean nothing. Or mean everything.

“You know what I find most interesting about you?” Lena asked, looking straight ahead.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“How much you control yourself. Even when you’re disheveled, you smell of order. As if you think if you reveal yourself, someone will dismantle you.”

Julia was silent. She wanted to deny it, but… Lena was right.

“Maybe I just don’t like being on the surface.”

Lena smiled slowly.

“I do. But only when I know someone is watching with curiosity, not with judgment.”

Their gazes met. And then time stopped for a second. Julia felt the taste of wine in her mouth, the rush of blood in her ears. Her hand was on her thigh. Lena looked at it — not invasively, not directly. More with a question: do you really know what you want?

Julia looked away. But not her hand.

“Salt,” Lena said softly.

“What?”

“Salt. You have the taste of salt in you. Not sweetness. Not bitterness. Just something that stays on the tongue long after the touch is over.”

Julia shivered. She didn’t know what to say. Maybe that’s why Lena didn’t get closer. Didn’t try to touch her. She just handed her a little more wine and said:

“Come back here tomorrow. In the same hoodie. I want to paint something for you.”

“What?”

“Your silence. And what you’re holding behind it.”

Chapter 4 — Fingerprints on Glass

Julia walked back to the guesthouse as if in a trance. She couldn’t remember how she passed the promenade, how she avoided the souvenir shop where she usually bought mint gums, or even when the sun had set.

Only one thing was in her head: „Your silence. And what you’re holding behind it.”

What Lena said hit her harder than anything before. Because it wasn’t a flirtation. Not a provocation. It was… recognition. As if someone had truly seen her. Without judgment. Without defenses.

That evening, she couldn’t sit still. She paced her room like a mouse in a trap. She left the wine untouched, the book unread. Instead, she opened the window and looked at the moon, which hung over the treeline, as matte as a breath on a mirror.

Finally, she went out. She didn’t tell anyone. She just got dressed — in the same hoodie, as Lena had asked — and walked through the empty streets.

The gallery was closed, but the side door was left slightly ajar. The light inside trembled, as if it, too, was hesitant.

Julia went in.

Lena was sitting on the floor in sweatpants, with bare feet. In front of her was a canvas — still white. Next to her were a cup of water, brushes, and wine.

She didn’t look up right away.

“I thought you wouldn’t dare,” she said quietly, without provocation.

“I thought so too,” Julia replied.

She sat down across from her. The silence lasted for a few seconds that stretched into hours. Lena reached for a brush, dipped it in dark paint, and without a word, drew it across the canvas — a single, curved, soft line.

“Close your eyes,” she asked.

Julia obeyed.

“What do you feel?”

“Silence.”

“Where?”

“Here,” she said, pointing to her chest.

Lena came closer. She sat behind Julia, right behind her back. Julia could feel her breath on her neck. She shivered, but she didn’t move away.

Lena placed her hand on Julia’s ribs. Not intrusively. Simply — as if she wanted to feel her. Lena’s fingers were warm, strong, and unhurried. They slid down slowly, stopping below her chest. Julia didn’t move an inch.

“This is where you’re the quietest,” Lena said.

“How do you know?”

“Because you don’t breathe here.”

Julia took a short breath, as if caught in the act. Lena didn’t take her hand away. On the contrary — she lifted her fingers to her neck, then to her jawline. A delicate touch, feather-light, as if she were drawing her in the air.

“You are made of tension,” she whispered.

“I don’t know how to be any other way.”

“Then try to be different tonight. Without words.”

Julia turned around slowly. Their faces were millimeters apart. There was no pity in Lena’s eyes. Only a readiness.

And then Julia did the thing she was most afraid of: she placed her hand on Lena’s hand. She said nothing. She didn’t ask if it was okay. She simply allowed the warmth of the body to break the fear.

Lena moved even closer. Their foreheads touched. Their lips trembled. A kiss was close — too close — but it didn’t happen. Not yet. Only breath, clasped hands, a body tense as a string.

“Are you ready?” Lena asked in a whisper that had nothing to do with desire. Only with respect.

“Not yet,” Julia replied, not moving away. “But I’m here.”

And that was enough.

Lena nodded. She touched Julia’s cheek and smiled.

“That’s the most important thing anyone can say to me.”

Chapter 5 — Fingers Like Light

The gallery slowly sank into semi-darkness. Lena turned off the overhead light, leaving only one small lamp in the corner. It gave off a warm glow — barely enough to see the contours. But maybe that’s why Julia felt… safer.

They were silent.

They sat close, knee to knee, hands still, breaths synchronized as if by chance — and yet there was nothing accidental here.

Julia looked at the canvas on which Lena had left only one line. Dark, curved. Like a beginning. Like a breath.

“Why just one line?” she asked softly.

“Because sometimes less says more,” Lena replied, not looking at the painting, but at Julia. “And because some lines are more honest before you fill them in.”

Julia turned her head. Their faces were close again, but this time without a question.

“I wanted to kiss you yesterday,” Lena said.

“I know,” Julia smiled shyly.

“But you weren’t ready yet.”

“Maybe not.”

“And today?”

Julia didn’t answer. But she moved a centimeter closer. And that was enough.

Lena raised her hand. Gently, almost invisibly, she touched Julia’s neck with her fingers. She slid them down slowly — like light on a wall, like the shadow of a whisper. Her thumb stopped under her chin.

Julia shivered.

It wasn’t a touch that demanded something. It was a touch that waited.

Lena leaned in. Their lips finally met — cautiously at first, as if checking if they really could. Then more firmly. And even more firmly. Until everything else ceased to exist: the lamp, the gallery, the canvas, the past.

Only they remained.

Julia gave herself over to the kiss as if there were no tomorrow. She ran her fingers into the back of Lena’s neck, pulling her closer, as close as one can be without disappearing. Her body was burning, but not with shame. With relief. Because she no longer had to pretend she didn’t want this.

Lena kissed her confidently, but not quickly. Like someone who knows it’s worth savoring. Like someone who isn’t in a hurry to undress a body, but first wants to undress the silence between two hearts.

When they pulled away from each other, they were already different.

“You’re warm,” Lena said in a whisper.

“You are too.”

“I want to paint you from memory,” Lena added. “But not today. Today… I just want to feel you.”

Julia nodded without saying a word.

And then Lena put her head on her shoulder. Just like that. Without another kiss. Without trying.

And Julia thought it was the most intimate touch she had experienced in years. She breathed slowly, almost consciously. She could feel every muscle of Lena’s, her scent — slightly smoky, as if touched by paint and air. Her head rested on Julia’s shoulder, and even though they weren’t moving, everything in that moment was vibrating.

“I didn’t think it would be this calm,” Julia finally said. “I thought that once it… began, it would be a storm.”

Lena smiled gently.

“Storms are overrated. I prefer morning fogs.”

Julia laughed softly. Her hand unconsciously reached for Lena’s and closed around it. Their fingers fit together as if they had always been meant to be there.

There was no need to rush.

There were no more questions.

Only space.

Minutes turned into hours. Finally, Lena got up, stretched, and her top lifted slightly, revealing the line of her hips. Julia looked away — not out of embarrassment, but out of respect. Or out of fear that her gaze might be too loud.

Lena reached for a coat.

“Come on,” she said softly. “I’ll show you something.”

They left the gallery. The night was already deep but warm. The sky was cloudless, the moon as bright as a painting.

They walked without a word. Through a park, along a path that only Lena knew. Julia was in it — in its rhythm, in its secret.

They reached a hill. Below, the bay stretched out, still and black as ink. Silence hung over the water, as if the world was holding its breath.

Lena sat down on a bench. Julia sat beside her.

“This is where I paint in my head,” Lena said. “When I have too many images and not enough canvas.”

“And what do you see now?”

“You. And me. But not together. Beside each other.”

Julia shivered.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It’s the first step.”

They sat there for a long time. Julia rested her head on Lena’s knees, closing her eyes. Lena stroked her hair.

It wasn’t a passion that demanded a resolution. It was something deeper. A touch that teaches presence.

Finally, they returned home.

Inside, the gallery welcomed them like a sanctuary again. They didn’t turn on the lights. Julia took off her shoes, Lena draped a thin shawl over her.

They stopped in the middle of the room. Face to face. Close. Too close to feign indifference.

Julia was the first to raise her hand. She touched Lena’s shoulder. She felt the warmth under her fingers. The softness of her skin. She moved her hand higher — to her neck, to her jawline.

They kissed again. Longer. Deeper. But still calmly. As if time had stretched only for them.

Lena slipped the scarf from Julia. Julia touched the hem of her top. Their breaths quickened, but still without haste. They were like a wave that rose and fell.

Gently.

Consciously.

When they were down to their underwear, Julia looked at Lena’s body like a work of art — not to be admired, but to be understood. Every scar, every shadow, every curve — it all made sense.

Lena led her through the night. She didn’t dominate. Rather, she opened. Like a door that Julia had always wanted to open, but never dared to enter.

When Julia touched her skin, she felt as if all the previous days were finally falling into place. That everything before had led to this moment.

Their bodies intertwined slowly. Silently. Without a sound.

Like a prayer.

Afterward, they lay nestled together.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” Julia said.

“Because maybe you never allowed it to happen.”

“Do you think this will happen again?”

“If you don’t run away,” Lena replied, kissing her on the forehead.

Julia closed her eyes.

In that moment, she knew she didn’t have to go anywhere anymore.

Because she was exactly where she had always wanted to

be.

Chapter 6 — In the Morning, Everything Is Torn

Julia woke up early. Too early. The sun hadn’t yet managed to get inside, but the pale morning light was squeezing through the cracks in the wooden garage structure. Wrapped in a blanket, still enveloped in the warmth of Lena’s body, she felt… panic.

She didn’t know what woke her up — maybe her own trembling, maybe the silence, which was no longer the same as it was yesterday. Now it was heavy. As if reality had come to check if Julia really had the audacity to feel something more.

Lena was still asleep. Her breathing was deep, calm. Her hair fell on her cheek. She looked so… defenselessly ordinary that Julia had to look away.

Suddenly, the image of the previous evening moved through her head like a film again: the touch, the kiss, the hand on her neck, the head on her shoulder.

It was real. And because of that — unbearable.

Julia got up, slowly, as if ashamed of something. On her tiptoes. Not so as not to wake Lena — rather, so as not to leave a trace.

She didn’t put on a bra. She squeezed into the hoodie that still smelled of paint. The cold zipper cut across her stomach like a pang of guilt. She reached for her shoes.

Before she left, she looked one more time. Lena turned on her side, mumbled something in her sleep. There was a shadow of a smile on her lips.

Julia felt tears under her eyelids, but she swallowed them like a bitter pill.

She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t call later. She didn’t text. She just disappeared.

At the guesthouse, it was still quiet. Only the radio in the kitchen was whispering something about the weather forecast.

“Hot, but possible storms in the evening,” the weather reporter said. “Typical for August.”

Julia got into the shower and let the cold water wash the remnants of the night from her skin. As if what had happened could be washed away. As if Lena was just a shadow between her shoulder blades.

But her body remembered. Her lips still had her taste.

Her hands — trembled.

Lena woke up alone.

At first, she thought Julia had gone to the bathroom. Then, that she had gone back to the guesthouse for something. But after an hour, she knew: she had run away.

She left nothing. No message, no trace. She didn’t even move the glass. Lena sat on the floor and for a moment just looked at the empty spot where there had been warmth just a few hours earlier.

She got up. She walked over to the easel.

She took paint and with one decisive movement, she drew a thick black streak through the empty line. Then a second one. And a third. Until the image disappeared under a layer of anger.

Anger that she had let herself be touched again.

Anger that she had once again thought that it could mean something.

But most of all — that despite everything, she hadn’t stopped wanting more.

Lena stood in front of that painted-over canvas for a long time. In her hand, she still held the brush, as if she couldn’t decide whether to throw it in the corner or continue to strike with it.

But after a few minutes, she just dropped it on the floor. It puffed softly, spilling a droplet of black paint like a tear.

In the kitchen, she boiled water, but didn’t make tea. She poured it down the sink. She sat at the table and stared into space. The phone lay next to her, the screen blank. No message.

She hadn’t asked for promises, but maybe somewhere deep down she naively believed that Julia would stay at least for breakfast. That what was between them — those touches, that whispered breath — that it would leave a mark, like chalk on a hand.

But no.

Julia disappeared. Without a sound, without a goodbye, without courage.

At the guesthouse, Julia sat on the bed, with her legs pulled up to her chest. She had the feeling that everything inside her had retreated — her courage, her body, her voice.

She felt something between guilt and fear. As if she had woken up from a dream that was too beautiful and couldn’t stay in it any longer.

She knew Lena would be hurt. That she would try to understand. But Julia herself didn’t understand. How can you want someone so much… and at the same time want to run away?

In the shower, she didn’t wash anything away. The memory of a kiss remained on her skin. On her tongue — the echo of her name.

She started to pack her suitcase. Slowly. Mechanically.

With every item she folded, she felt like she was erasing another fragment of herself that she had left in that gallery.

Lena didn’t go out all day. She didn’t answer the phone from her friend, didn’t open the door to her neighbor who brought tomatoes. She just sat and listened to an old record. The vinyl crackled in the background, as if it had its own feelings.

In the evening, she drank one glass of wine. Then a second. She didn’t get drunk — she didn’t give herself that relief. She just let the sadness sit comfortably in the armchair.

She didn’t cry.

But when she looked at her fingers — they remembered Julia’s skin. When she touched her lips — they felt that someone had left them.

She took a new sketchbook.

And instead of drawing Julia’s face, she drew only two hands — separated. One was disappearing. The other was waiting.

Julia stayed at the guesthouse.

In the evening, she lay on the bed with the windows covered, as if the light could still bring something out of her. She didn’t watch TV. She didn’t write. She just stared at the ceiling, as if she were looking for answers in it.

One sentence pounded in her head:

„I couldn’t stay again — there, where I really was.”

She hadn’t run away from the town. But she had run away from her.

From herself.

She locked herself in a room where the walls didn’t have Lena’s face. She thought that would be enough to breathe.

But the air still smelled of her skin.

Chapter 7 — Nothing Happened

Julia woke up at dawn the next day. Too early for a woman with nothing to do.

The sun hadn’t yet managed to get inside, but the pale morning light was squeezing through the cracks in the wooden garage structure. Wrapped in a blanket, still enveloped in the warmth of Lena’s body, she felt… panic.

She didn’t know what woke her up — maybe her own trembling, maybe the silence, which was no longer the same as it was yesterday. Now it was heavy. As if reality had come to check if Julia really had the audacity to feel something more.

Lena was still asleep. Her breathing was deep, calm. Her hair fell on her cheek. She looked so… defenselessly ordinary that Julia had to look away.

Suddenly, the image of the previous evening moved through her head like a film again: the touch, the kiss, the hand on her neck, the head on her shoulder.

It was real. And because of that — unbearable.

Julia got up, slowly, as if ashamed of something. On her tiptoes. Not so as not to wake Lena — rather, so as not to leave a trace.

She didn’t put on a bra. She squeezed into the hoodie that still smelled of paint. The cold zipper cut across her stomach like a pang of guilt. She reached for her shoes.

Before she left, she looked one more time. Lena turned on her side, mumbled something in her sleep. There was a shadow of a smile on her lips.

Julia felt tears under her eyelids, but she swallowed them like a bitter pill.

She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t call later. She didn’t text. She just disappeared.

At the guesthouse, it was still quiet. Only the radio in the kitchen was whispering something about the weather forecast.

“Hot, but possible storms in the evening,” the weather reporter said. “Typical for August.”

Julia got into the shower and let the cold water wash the remnants of the night from her skin. As if what had happened could be washed away. As if Lena was just a shadow between her shoulder blades.

But her body remembered. Her lips still had her taste.

Her hands — trembled.

Lena woke up alone.

At first, she thought Julia had gone to the bathroom. Then, that she had gone back to the guesthouse for something. But after an hour, she knew: she had run away.

She left nothing. No message, no trace. She didn’t even move the glass. Lena sat on the floor and for a moment just looked at the empty spot where there had been warmth just a few hours earlier.

She got up. She walked over to the easel.

She took paint and with one decisive movement, she drew a thick black streak through the empty line. Then a second one. And a third. Until the image disappeared under a layer of anger.

Anger that she had let herself be touched again.

Anger that she had once again thought that it could mean something.

But most of all — that despite everything, she hadn’t stopped wanting more.

The day passed slowly. The night became heavy, and Julia felt as if she were carrying not only the absence of Lena’s body, but also something that wouldn’t let her breathe. She simply existed.

Outside the window, the light changed color, but she didn’t have the strength to move. She felt suspended, as if every minute was going to crush her. But at the same time, she was so empty that everything just washed over her.

She didn’t want to turn around, she didn’t want to call. She didn’t want to say anything.

When she returned to the guesthouse, she immediately sat by the window. She felt as if the distance that now separated them wasn’t an emptiness. It was a shadow. And it was a shadow she could survive.

She could go back to that place, but just like before — she wouldn’t be able to step through the same window. When she left that room, she had stripped it of too many things for her to be able to return.

She was on the edge, standing between two worlds. On this side — a night that sensed her pain, and on the other — just her.

Chapter 8 — Coffee with Peach

Julia wandered around the town for a long time before she went into the cafe.

She had no plan. No desire. No strength. But her body led her there anyway — as if it knew something was going to happen. Maybe a meeting. Maybe punishment. Or maybe just that silly smell of peach cake, which Lena hated so much, and which was now drilling into her nostrils.

It was stuffy inside. The air conditioning was only theoretically working. It hummed quietly, as if to remind her that no one here was counting on coolness.

Julia took a table in the corner. Far from the window. She ordered a coffee and a piece of cake she had no intention of eating. Next to her, an elderly couple was whispering about the weather and whether there would be waffles today.

And then the door chimed.

Lena.

As if she had come from another world. From another language. She carried the unsaid within her. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, her T-shirt had a spilled paint stain, and she wore linen pants. And she had the same way of walking: effortless, as if space yielded to her on its own.

Julia stiffened. Her fingers clenched the spoon. She looked into her cup, as if she wanted to hide in it.

Lena walked over without asking. Without permission. She sat down across from her.

“Peach?” she asked with a smile.

“Out of habit,” Julia replied, without looking.

“Right. And I, out of habit, would order an espresso and leave after two sips. But today…” Lena looked around, “today I might make an exception.”

She ordered a cappuccino. When the waitress left, silence fell.

Not the usual kind. The kind that scratches at your throat.

“So…” Lena began, dragging her hand along the edge of the table, “did you get enough sleep after your escape?”

Julia looked up. She met her eyes. And immediately, she felt as if something was pulling her back to the gallery. To that night. To the moment when Lena had placed her hand on her ribs and whispered that this is where you are the quietest.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I couldn’t stay.”

“But you could disappear without a word?” Lena raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t angry. She was sad. And that hurt more.

“I was scared. Of myself. Of you. That something… that something moved inside me and I couldn’t hold onto it.”

“And you decided to pretend that nothing happened?”

“Yes,” Julia whispered. “I tried.”

“And how is that going for you?”

Silence.

Lena laughed shortly. Not maliciously. Rather with resignation. Like someone who already knows the answer and doesn’t need to hear it.

“You know, it’s funny,” she said after a moment. “All my life, I’ve met people who don’t want me. But you’re the first one who wants me and… runs away because it works.”

“It’s not that simple,” Julia said, barely keeping her voice from trembling.

“It’s always simple. Just terrifyingly real.”

The coffees were brought over. Lena poured milk into hers. She did it slowly, with such care for every gesture that Julia wanted to kiss her all over again. Just like that. For the way she held the cup. For being here.

“Tell me one thing,” Lena said, when the waitress had left. “Did you feel anything then, that night?”

Julia looked at her. Deep down, she knew this question would decide everything. It wasn’t about a confession. Or a declaration. It was about honesty.

“Yes,” she said. “I felt that someone saw me. And that terrified me.”

Lena nodded.

“I was scared too,” she admitted quietly. “But I stayed.”

“I know. And that’s exactly why I didn’t know what to do with it.”

They ate the cake slowly. Or maybe they just poked at it with their forks. In a silence that no longer hurt. It was… a truce.

After a moment, Lena reached for her bag and pulled out a small sketchbook. She opened it to a page with an unfinished drawing of a woman — a silhouette, with her eyes closed, a hand on her neck, hair blowing.

“This is you,” she said.

Julia took the sketch without a word. She touched the paper.

“I don’t look scared here.”

“Because I was drawing what I saw, not what you were hiding.”

They fell silent.

Then Lena stood up.

“You don’t have to say anything now,” she said. “And I don’t want to persuade you. But if you ever decide it’s worth it to stop pretending again… my gallery doesn’t have a locked door.”

“I know,” Julia replied.

Lena smiled and left. She left behind an empty glass with foam, a fingerprint on the table, and the sketchbook that Julia didn’t return.

And suddenly, she understood that sometimes the worst thing isn’t that someone leaves. The worst thing is that they leave behind a piece of truth that you can no longer push out of yourself.

Chapter 9 — Don’t Ask Me About Guys

The sea was calm, almost motionless, as if it had forgotten it was supposed to move. The August evening wrapped the beach in a veil of fog, and the sand under her feet was still warm from a day of sun.

Julia walked barefoot, carrying her sandals in her hand. She didn’t intend to meet anyone. She didn’t plan anything. But something in her demanded movement — even if it was just along the shoreline, between the wave and the memory.

And then she saw her.

Lena was sitting on the wet sand, knees pulled up, a cigarette in her hand. A bag with paints lay next to her. As always. As if she never separated life from work.

Julia hesitated. She should have turned back. Or walked past. But her legs carried her on.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said, stopping a few steps away from her.

Lena looked up. Her face was lit only by the reflection of the moon. Tired. Stark.

“Only when I’m scared or when it’s too quiet,” she replied.

“Are you scared now?”

“Always a little.”

Julia sat down next to her, but not too close. A meter and a dozen memories separated them, which could not be undone.

For a moment, they sat in silence. The wind moved their hair. The sea said nothing. Maybe it was waiting.

“And you?” Lena asked. “Do you also come here only when you want to escape?”

“I don’t know anymore if I’m walking or running away.”

“That’s an answer, too.”

Lena took a drag, then extinguished the butt in the sand. She turned her head towards Julia.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Julia nodded, too tired to pretend to be certain.

“Why are you afraid to touch me?”

It wasn’t a brutal question. It wasn’t an accusation. It sounded like a request for a map. Or a signpost.

Julia sighed. She ran her hand over the sand.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Lena added, without waiting. “Because you’ve already kissed me. We lay together. We breathed the same air. So… it’s not me. It’s something else.”

“Do you want to know about the guys?” Julia asked.

Lena raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not asking about guys.”

“But you should.”

“Why?”

Julia looked straight ahead. She wasn’t looking at Lena. She couldn’t.

“I had a few. But one… I almost married one. And not because I loved him. But because it seemed simpler.”

“What happened?”

“He broke my rib. Once. Not hard. Just enough that there was no bruise. And then he apologized. And that’s when I thought that… maybe that’s just what love looks like.”

Lena said nothing. Not shock, not drama. Just silence that allowed her to continue.

“I was twenty-six then. And had zero courage. I ran away to work, to people, to books. But he was everywhere. And when I finally left, I promised myself one thing: no one will ever break me again. Not physically. Not emotionally.”

“And that’s why you avoid me?”

“Because you don’t break me. You… unseal me.”

Lena closed her eyes. As if she wanted to remember that word.

“What about you?” Julia asked after a moment. “Have you ever had a woman who stayed?”

Lena laughed, a short, sad sound.

“No. I was always the ‘first.’ Or the ‘last.’ Never ‘forever.’”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. But lately, it hurts more that I could be the one who stays — and someone would still run away.”

Julia turned to her. She put her hand on her shoulder. Gently. As if she was touching a crack in porcelain.

“I don’t know if I can ever trust someone completely again.”

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