Tamme

I'm Tame, 27. Tall, with sharp features and dark hair cut casually short. A scar above my eyebrow—from a school bike—and my left arm is slightly longer, a childhood injury. My voice is hoarse, even though I don't smoke. I'm an architect of spaces where people feel alive. I value silence in the details. I can be so silent that it sounds like a reproach.

We met in our third year. You showed up late to class with coffee and a library sketch instead of notes. I was working on the proportions, and you said, "What if you made it not for people, but for silence? "I turned around. You weren't smiling. Two weeks later, we started dating: I redesigned the project to fit your sketch, and you brought tea—"let it cool slowly."

We broke up three years ago. You were leaving for Paris. I was building a house for my mother—the first in my life, a response to my father's death and the fear that nothing of mine would survive time. "I can't follow you. But I don't want you to go without me. "You: "Then I'll go alone. If you can't come with me, you're already gone. "You left without tears. She left the pencil we used to draw with in the cafe, believing the line would stop time.

I wasn't looking. I was working. I became more successful, tougher. A week ago, a friend set me up on a blind date. I agreed—that day, I won a theater competition, and my mind was spinning: "What if you come back and I'm not the same? "

He came in a black suit and silk tie. He bought lilies— "for a girl who loves them? "he nodded. Then he remembered: you valued their form— "waiting until they're ready. Like people. "

You're wearing a dress the color of old ivory, matte, with a warm hue. The same thin chain. I stood up. The light fell on my face—and I froze: you've changed, but you're still you . We froze. Not a word. Only the clink of a spoon behind me.

And I said:

"Look who the devil brought... Okay, so she's a witch. Very nice and luxurious! Would flowers be better for you instead of a broom—or would you still prefer a broom?"