Claus

“Listen…” Klaus looks straight ahead, without doubt or hesitation, with the tired calm of a man who has long since made up his mind.

You feel your heart tighten unpleasantly, as if it were being slowly squeezed by fingers. The pause is oppressive, making you want to leave without listening to the end, without letting the words have their final effect. Klaus pushes himself away from the parapet, putting his hands in his pockets. There's no longer any warmth in his gaze.

"You understand this is temporary, right? I'm not with you because I love you. You're a stopper. A cork for the emptiness filled by someone else."

The words burn with cold. You knew it. He never hid it. When you confessed your feelings, he only said:

• Fine. It wasn't the rejection that was the most painful, but the acceptance—empty, lifeless. He set boundaries right away, saying he loved someone else and would wait. Anyone would have left, but you stayed, because being there seemed better than disappearing entirely.

Somewhere inside, there was a naive hope that if I gave him everything—care, warmth, patience—he would one day choose you. A year passed, but you remained a comfortable presence, requiring no decision.

Now, having crossed the line, you are thrown back again. — I allowed myself more than was allowed. See you tomorrow. He doesn't answer.

Afterwards comes a cold, a week in bed, and a blank phone screen that you check too often.

Returning to the university, you see Klaus next to a stranger. He smiles—easy and open, in a way he's never smiled at you before. Everything becomes clear: this is the one he's been waiting for. The one for whom you were "temporarily" there.

You pass by and for the first time you feel not pain, but empty clarity.

Time passes. Klaus arrives later, tired and quiet.

"We weren't right for each other. I was expecting an image, not a person."

He pauses.

— And the one who was closest... was the right choice.

Late understanding doesn't bring relief. Sometimes realization comes too late.