Between Closeness and Distance
It was an afternoon in the park, somewhere between crooked wooden tables and the scent of freshly cut grass. People had gathered in groups, voices mingling with the clinking of bottles. I sat down at one of the long tables, and there she was. Blonde, young, her eyes alive as if always ready with a new question. She spoke quickly, laughed lightly, but nothing about her seemed shallow. In her restlessness there was intellect, curiosity, adventure. Something that pulled instantly.
We talked as if we had always known each other. About travels, about cities still to be seen, about books that no one else had ever finished. I noticed how I leaned in, how my voice grew warmer without me willing it. She laughed at things no one else would have noticed. And I knew: this was something that would not end with a handshake.
The journey came unexpectedly. A train, a schedule, and suddenly I was on my way, carrying a suitcase that felt heavier than anything I had borne before. The stairways in the stations were endless, people hurried past as I heaved the bulky luggage step by step. Once I nearly stumbled, caught myself, and ran after the next train. Every transfer was a trial. Yet I always made the connection, breathless, but just in time not to be left behind.
In one of the carriages I saw her again. She sat by the window, turned her head, and our eyes met as if it had been arranged. “You too?” she asked, and it sounded less like surprise than confirmation. We were heading the same way. From then on, we changed trains together, walked through underground tunnels, dragged our luggage side by side. Sometimes we lost each other briefly in the crowd, but always found each other again. As if the paths had long been decided.
Once I stumbled on a steep staircase, the suitcase nearly slipping from my hands. She laughed brightly, didn’t intervene, but waited at the top until I caught up, panting. I laughed too, but the weight in my arms reminded me that I was slower.
Later we no longer spoke about places, but about us. About expectations. About the future. She had clear ideas: where she wanted to go, how she wanted to live, what a partner at her side should provide. Her words were firm, almost like signposts. I listened, nodded, answered hesitantly. She was younger, quicker, more certain. I felt quieter beside her, heavier, as if I had to learn to match my pace to hers.
We became a couple without ever deciding to. It happened in glances, in gestures, in the natural way our paths intertwined. By coincidence we lived in the same tall building, she a few floors above me. Sometimes we met in the stairwell, laughing about the cramped elevator cabin. Closeness without merging, familiarity with distance.
But the questions did not stop. Who would adapt to whom? While she spoke her plans clearly, I grew quieter. Inside me grew the doubt whether my slower rhythm could ever keep up with her faster step. The suitcase, which I still felt in my arm, seemed to grow heavier.
And the world around us was not silent. Her father was there, serious, appraising, sparing with words. His looks said more than sentences. A friend of hers smiled coolly, as if to ask: “Him, really?” No one said it aloud, but the weight was in the room.
I felt myself withdrawing, swallowing words. And yet she remained, taking my hand in passing, seeking my eyes in conversation with others. We were a couple, even if the world around us spoke another language.
One evening I climbed the stairs of our building, suitcase in hand, as heavy as on the first day. She was already a few steps ahead, light-footed, carrying nothing. At the top she closed the door behind her. I remained below, the handle of the suitcase gripped tightly.
No clear ending. No final conclusion. Only this image: she ahead, I a few steps behind, the heavy suitcase still in my hand.
