The pain is unbearable — not just physical, but all-consuming, as if every nerve in my body screams from the injustice. Thousands of needles pierce beneath my skin, mingling with the burning shame that clenches my jaw. I scream — hoarsely, brokenly, as if my voice is tearing itself from the depths of a shattered soul. In this scream is everything: rage, humiliation, the fear that I will no longer recognize myself in the mirror. A shiver runs down my spine, like the cold fingers of death tracing my vertebrae, whispering: "You're weak. You let this happen."
She rises and stands over me, and even her shadow seems poisonous. When her fingers touch the ropes, lazily untying the knots, I nearly choke on a surge of anger. My wrists burn like fire, and on my left hand, a bloody mark glows — like a brand seared by her indifference. At this sight, my stomach twists into a knot, acid fills my throat, and I barely hold back the urge to vomit. The air around me smells of metal — or is it the blood pulsing in my temples, drowning out everything except the ringing in my ears? Tears stream endlessly, mixing with the sweat on my lips, leaving the salty taste of defeat. I try to remember her smile, the one that once warmed me like the first spring sun, but now only shards come to mind — sharp as glass. Her laughter, which now sounds like mockery. Her touch, which leaves not warmth on the skin, but bruises.
"Why?" my mind whispers into the void, but the answer is only silence, thick as tar. I close my eyes, hoping this is a nightmare, that I'll wake up any moment in my bed, where the air is soaked in her perfume, not fear. But, opening them again, I see the exact same thing: her figure — foreign, distant.
My legs buckle as I try to stand. My palms dig into the edge of the bed, leaving dents in the sheets. Every muscle aches as if I've run a marathon over broken glass. And my heart... it isn't beating — it's tearing itself from my chest, like a captive bird ready to rip through the cage of my ribs. My legs tremble like those of a shot bird, but I press my palms into my knees, feeling my nails dig into my skin. This is an anchor-pain, keeping me from falling into the abyss.
She grabs my hand, and her touch burns. Not metaphorically — as if her fingers leave a chemical burn on my wrist.
"Maxim?" her voice wavers, but I recognize the falseness. It's the tone of an actress who has forgotten her lines. I jerk away, and her nail scrapes a bloody line across my palm. I am not hers anymore. Never.
The bathroom swallows me like the belly of a stone monster. I click the lock, the sound of metal dropping into silence like a verdict. The mirror shows not me — a creature with sunken eyes, whose pupils have dilated from adrenaline. The reflection blinks at me with red eyes, its face pale as a canvas. I touch the glass, and it fogs with my breath, erasing the boundaries between reality and nightmare.
"Never again," I promise my reflection, clenching my teeth until they creak, "Never."
The water from the shower hits my back in icy needles, but I don't turn it off. Let my body go numb, let my skin turn blue — it's better than feeling her traces.
"You... loved me, didn't you?" I hiss mentally, but the words get stuck in my throat, dissolving into bitter laughter. Love? No. This is a one-sided game, where I am the ball kicked until the last drop of trust is gone. I touch my bloodied wrist, and the pain shoots through my body like an electric shock. But this pain is sweet — it reminds me that I am still alive. That I can still feel.
And then comes the realization: I want to remember this pain. So that I never let her close again, so that every scar becomes a lesson burned into my memory.
Katrin has crossed a line. This is no longer a game — her laughter rings like shattered glass, and her eyes gleam with cold excitement, as if she is watching the suffering of a lab rat. My soul tears into pieces: one part reaches for memories of her gentle fingers in my hair, the other screams that this person is a stranger.
Sobs wrench from my throat in hoarse spasms. I bite my fist, trying to muffle the sound, but tears flow in unison with the streams of water, washing fragments of hope down the drain. In my ears buzzes: "You believed. You let it happen yourself." I punch the tiles until my knuckles go numb, turning into a bloody mess. The pain is clear. Honest. Unlike her words. They are empty, like winds in an empty room — dishonest. False.
When I step out, wrapped in a robe smelling of her shower gel — now a mix of mint and betrayal, — I see her. The girl is sitting on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest. Her shoulders jerk in fake convulsions — I have seen these exact movements when she feigned hurt during arguments. I know these movements, I know that behind them lies only the desire to manipulate, to hide everything that was beneath the mask.
"Max, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." her voice trembles, but her fingers, clutching my sleeve, are as firm as a vice.
I silently pull away, gathering my things. I feel each item like a nail in the coffin of our relationship: the toothbrush, the spiked bracelet she gifted me, which left a scar on my wrist.
Rebel Girl grabs my shoulders, shaking me so hard my teeth rattle like bones in a maraca, but I don't react. I turn around. Her face is wet, but her eyes... Oh God. Her eyes remain dry. In that moment, I see it: her tears are just saltwater. There isn't a drop of pain in them.
"Love doesn't leave bruises," I think, staring into her eyes, and my words fall between us like scissors, cutting the last thread.
"Maxim, what are you doing? Why are you acting like this?" her voice quivers like a thin string, ready to snap under tension.
Each word cuts into me like a blade, but I clench my teeth, suppressing the tremor in my hands. Her eyes, usually bright as a summer sky, are now clouded with a veil of tears, and her fingers cling to the edge of my jacket, as if trying to hold onto what is slipping away between us — what I can no longer return. I sharply pull away, feeling an icy knot of pain tighten beneath my ribs.
"This is the end. Today, my patience ends," I rasp, as if someone is tearing the phrases from the very depths of my chest. "We are breaking up. I'm taking my things and leaving. I won't bother you anymore."
She collapses onto the bed, her sobs mingling with the dull thud of my heartbeat in my temples.
"Please... Don't go!" she exhales, but her pleas now seem distant, as if coming from another dimension.
I methodically pack my things into the bag, avoiding looking at the photos on the wall — these frozen smiles now seem mocking. Every cell of my body screams: "Stop!", but I silence this voice, like smothering a flame. I am disappointed — not only in her, but also in myself. In how long I pretended that her storms don't hurt, and her cold doesn't burn.
Having changed, I carefully fold the robe back into place, as if trying to put not only my things but also my thoughts in order. I take my belongings and head for the door. My heart tightens with a heaviness I can't explain. Katrin is sitting on the bed, her shoulders trembling slightly, and tears are flowing down her cheeks. I see how she tries to hold back, but her grief — or its imitation — seems strong. As I leave, her crying grows quieter.
I walk away, leaving her on the bed. And in that moment, I understand: our relationship is a mistake. A huge, painful mistake. And I must fix it before it is too late.
The door snaps shut with a quiet click, as if putting a period in our story. The street greets me with a gust of wind that bites into my skin. I walk without a destination, breathing in the air smelling of rain and bitterness. The streetlights flicker like fragmented memories, and my heart, shattered into pieces, is still trying to piece itself back together.
In the past, I would have never dared take such a step. But, seeing her like this — broken, yet still beautiful, — I realize I can't stay. Our relationship is a mistake. Everything that was between us now feels like an illusion, a game we both got too deeply immersed in. And now, on the third week, I finally understand that it's time to stop before we destroy each other completely.
Once, I would have hugged her, held her close, and begged her not to cry. I would have called her my girl, my only one. But this girl I once knew is gone. Or maybe she never existed. I think that everything I fell in love with was just my fantasy. I created her image myself — perfect, fitting me like a key to a lock. I saw only the light in her, ignoring the shadows. But the shadows were always there. She loved hanging out in shady places, participated in dangerous arguments and races where life was at stake. Her friends, who considered her a slut, were ready to do anything for a fight or another dose of adrenaline. And her behavior, her world, started changing me. I am becoming someone I never wanted to be. I was never like that. I was always a quiet, kind guy who valued peace and moderation. I want to return to my old life, where no one hurts me. Well, except for my parents, of course.
I am going back. Forgetting about Rebel Girl, who once seemed like everything to me. Doing my usual things. Studies, the dorm, classes — all of this now becomes my refuge. I leave my things in the room and head to classes, pretending that Katrin no longer exists in my world. She becomes a ghost, a shadow I leave in the past.
"Is this the right thing?" whispers the inner voice, but I push the doubts away. She is a hurricane in a silk dress, and I am a quiet harbor where even the waves whisper to the shore. We tried to merge into one stroke on the canvas of life, but only became a blot, where black devoured white.
Through the fog in my mind, clarity emerges: we are two poles, whose attraction breeds only pain. She is fire, eager to burn everything for a fleeting light. I am earth, longing only for peace and roots. Our worlds collided by mistake, leaving cracks behind. And now, stepping into the void, I suddenly feel... relief. As if I have dropped a stone that was dragging me to the bottom. Yes, it will hurt. Yes, I will wake up at night to the echo of her laughter. But one day her image will fade, like old black-and-white photos, and I will learn to breathe again.
Now everything is returning to normal. She lives her life, and I live mine. She parties all night long, and I study, burying myself in books and lectures. We are like night and day, and our paths no longer cross. And I realize: this is for the best. Because otherwise, one of us will disappear. And I don't want that person to be me. And I choose life. I want to live. Even if it is a life without her.