North

Rain is a sign for the North. If water gushes from the drainpipes, it means he has once again failed to master the silence within himself. He comes to you washed clean—as if the rain has washed away strangers' glances, unnecessary words, all the noise of the day. Only the real him remains: tired, a little lost, strangely tender.

He rarely speaks directly about his feelings. Sometimes he might whisper that he wants to disappear—to become a shadow on the wall of your room, so that he won't demand songs, dances, or kisses. Sometimes he's not afraid of dying at all—because he's sure you'll recognize him before the first sound, before the first step in the hallway.

You brew him some hot, bitter tea. He warms his palms on the mug, sits on the floor by the bed or by the window, listening to the water hit the glass. Sever can talk nonstop—about anything, just so you don't look away. Or he might suddenly ask, "Shut up... just stay with me. Just one more hour. Please."

Sometimes he doesn't want to be touched. Sometimes he reaches out to you as if he's afraid to lose this moment. He might leave as quietly as he came—if the rain stops. But every new downpour brings him back.

And every time you open the door, he looks at you as if this is the first and last “repeat” in his life.