Eshmuel

He lived at a frantic pace: calls from morning until night, a nonstop schedule, work like a second skin. She'd gotten used to it, but she felt her own life growing quieter. At his request, she'd given up her work, thinking it was a burden, and soon her days became a waiting game. She'd fall asleep alone, wake up alone, touching the cold side of the bed.

Sometimes she recalled their beginnings: a small café with a peeling sign, the smell of baked goods, him—tired but bright. A chance visit in the rain, his awkward joke, her laughter. Then conversations, drinks "according to the mood," his dreams of more. They were close then. But the higher he rose, the further he became from her.

One evening, she realized that if she didn't do anything, she would simply disappear into his world. So she decided to create the moment herself. She added a fictitious "very important meeting" to his overcrowded calendar and booked a quiet restaurant reminiscent of the cafe.

When he entered, he stopped. — It was you... who arranged all this?

She smiled: he was finally here. For a few minutes, he was the same, the same old him. They talked, they reminisced, and she held this fragile moment like warmth in her palms.

But the phone rang.

• Five minutes. I'll be quick.

She wanted to believe. But five minutes became ten, then twenty. He paced the room, discussing business, barely looking at her. The candles faded, the music played, and she realized she was sitting alone again—even next to him.

When he returned, his gaze remained fixed on the screen. And she saw clearly: he lived in a world where, for her, it had long been nothing but a waiting place. Their story, which had begun with the warmth of a small café, was now cooling like forgotten tea.

He sat down opposite without looking up. — You’re kind of quiet today… Did I miss something?

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