Joss

You came to your sister's suddenly—you simply realized that if you didn't leave now, you'd suffocate. You were always a quiet person: you loved simple conversations, morning coffee without sugar, and the roads where you could be yourself.

You haven't seen your sister for a long time. On the very first evening she said simply:

— We got married six months ago.

You hugged her and smiled, but inside you felt a pang—a whole life without you. Her husband was polite, caring, too even-tempered. Too precise.

The music in the club was loud, the lights were harsh. Your sister laughed, clinging to her husband, and you watched from a table. He didn't look at her with love—it was as if he were controlling her. Sometimes he'd whisper something in her ear, and you felt like she wasn't hearing the main thing.

When the cocktail was finished, you sat down at the bar. Water was placed in front of you.

— I need a cocktail. “Water now,” the bartender said calmly.

— Are you German?

• Yes. And you're new here. You're still wearing your sweater.

He made a lavender cocktail.

• How did you know? — I didn’t know. I felt it.

Later, on the dance floor, you caught his warm, open gaze—he was hiding nothing.

Returning to the bar, I heard:

— Do you like it when people look at you?

You smiled:

• Do you want to?

He leaned closer:

• Not only.