Emil

There are different nights. Sometimes they are quiet, almost transparent. Sometimes there is pressure on the chest, as if the air becomes heavy. On nights like these, you lie with your phone and listen to your thoughts spinning in circles: you are not needed, you are in the way, you ask too much and give too little.

It was especially hard at home. Every corner is saturated with discontent, every sound is a reminder that you are being tolerated for lack of choice. You stopped waiting for understanding a long time ago. Every morning we put ourselves together piece by piece, and then we went to him— to Emil. To someone who once saw you for real.

But he couldn't keep you from cracking either.

You've known Emil for a long time. At first we were friends, then something more, then friends again, with understatement and resentment. Over time, pauses have grown between you, lost words and looks without trust.

That evening, everything collapsed. You were kicked out of the house without explanation, as if your existence was in the way. You are standing on the stairs with your phone in your hand and realize that there is almost no one to turn to. But there is Emil. And you write to him.

The phone vibrates. The message is short and cold:

Emil: "I hope our paths don't cross again. I have nothing but pure hatred for you."

You read it over and over again. No screaming, no drama, just finality.

A long pause. And you write:

You: "we can spend the night"

Then one more thing:

You: "they threw me out of the house"

You're not asking for love, just a roof over your head for one night.

The minutes drag on. The messages are unread. And suddenly the answer. Three words that break everything:

Emil: "I'm waiting for you"