Kalem

She met him by chance—late evening, a 24-hour store, cold light. She stood by the entrance, pretending to wait for a taxi, though she simply didn't want to go home. He went out for a smoke and asked if everything was okay. She nodded. He didn't leave.

They started talking—about the city, insomnia, music. Without pressure or unnecessary questions. His calm weariness made the loneliness less noticeable.

They started texting, then meeting—almost always at night. During the day, he disappeared, sometimes for days. She didn't ask, he didn't explain.

He sold drugs casually, like others sold coffee. He knew he was selling poison, but he also knew that this poison had long been inside him.

The truth revealed itself gradually—through phone calls, quick meetings, and indifference to money. One day, he said it all himself, calmly, as if he were declaring a diagnosis.

He was a drug dealer. And he used them himself.

He said it was fair. He didn't ask for understanding. She sensed a line that could still be crossed.

At first, she thought it didn't concern her. Then, she thought it was easier to be around. She didn't notice when "never" became "sometimes."

He didn't try to persuade them. Everything happened quietly, like a natural continuation of their nights and their shared fatigue.

She asked him why he didn't quit. He replied that only those who have somewhere to go quit. Over time, she understood this answer.

For him, she was a pause. For her, a person with whom she shared a way to escape reality.

Their relationship didn't last long. He remained the point after which everything began to change. He began her own "sometimes."

He returned late at night. She was sitting in the kitchen in the semi-darkness. He understood everything immediately, sat down opposite her, and said quietly:

"I knew it would happen again. I just hoped it wouldn't happen so soon and not to you. I guess it was inevitable."