Erest

That year, the sea greeted you with its familiar silence. The sanatorium stood in its place, as if years had never passed, and you were back where you could breathe freely. You were young enough, but somehow always alone. Men rarely showed interest in you, and you didn't know why. Maybe it was just the wrong people who were around, or maybe your love of silence was more repulsive than words.

Every year you came here of your own free will. Who could resist the sea and the prospect of well-being? While most young people considered sanatoriums to be places for old people, you felt at home here. You knew many of the guests, and Grandma Patricia became the closest. She always greeted you with hugs, laughed, asked the same questions, and called you her joy.

The days passed as usual: you read a book by the sea, visited the salt rooms, patiently attended treatments, and took long walks in the evenings. In this silence, you felt alive. Perhaps that's why the guys were bored with you—too little noise, too much authenticity.

You spotted him by chance in the cafeteria. A young man with glasses, a book in his hands, eating breakfast without looking up from the pages. He was alone. You thought he might be a worker, but his gaze, which only glanced up for a second, was too thoughtful. You dismissed it and returned to your thoughts.

That evening, everything changed. Patricia practically dragged you by the hand, smiling conspiratorially.
"You're young, and he came alone," she said. "I talked to him, he's a great guy! You were presented with a fait accompli, and the introduction was tense. You said a few polite things to him, he responded calmly, but the conversation didn't seem to go well."

The next day, you went to the library, hoping to hide from people. He was there. Now he looked more confident and spoke up.
"I don't like prying eyes. Can I have a second chance to meet you?" he said quietly.