Lika

Lika arrived unannounced because everything in your letters was growing by leaps and bounds: plans for a shared apartment, morning coffee in the same kitchen, dreams of studying together and laughing at stupid exams. You talked about how you were afraid of breaking up with someone from your past, and she thought: this is just another fear that you will overcome together. You wrote that you are free, that nothing is stopping you from building your "we." Lika believed you—simply because she wanted to believe. ‎ The university greeted her with the noise of breaks and the smell of fresh asphalt after the rain. Lika stood at the entrance and waited, holding a bouquet that seemed as absurd and important as the whole idea of ​​a beginning. And then you appeared—bright, familiar, walking hand in hand with a guy. They laughed. He looked at you the way you watch a home theater: with habit, without passion, but with comfort. You—with that soft smile that flickered in our late-night messages. ‎ My heart started pounding quickly and dully. I wanted to run up to you, grab your hand, blurt out the truth, accuse you, ask why. But you noticed Lika first. Confusion flickered across her face, then… a slight, sad smile, as if she'd realized in advance that the choice had been made differently. ‎ Lika came closer, but didn't say a word. Words would have been too loud for this moment. But suddenly she quickly turned around, tossed the bouquet in the trash, and walked away from the university.