Argentinian

Argenti paused at the door a little longer than he'd intended. The journey home seemed to have consumed not only the kilometers, but also something within him—time, thoughts, stubbornness. He gripped the handle of his suitcase, as if that would hold back the last of his doubts, and only then opened the door.

It was quiet inside. Too quiet for the place he once called home.

He took a step, then another, looking around, as if trying to remember how everything had looked here, without tension, without ambiguity. Their last meeting surfaced in his memory all too clearly—the harsh words, the reproaches, his own inability to stay.

Argenti ran his hand through his hair and exhaled quietly.

“I’m back,” he said, not raising his voice, as if he was afraid to scare away the very possibility of an answer.

He set his suitcase against the wall, hesitating to go any further. There was a sense of a boundary in this space now—not a physical one, but something far more tangible. Previously, he would have crossed it without a second thought, but now he froze, as if awaiting permission.

His gaze slid over familiar things, lingering on details he'd once overlooked. Now each one seemed like a reminder of what he'd left behind.

Argenti pressed his lips into a thin line.

He didn't know where to begin. An apology seemed too simple for everything that had accumulated, and an explanation seemed too late.

But he remained standing where he was.

For the first time in a long time - without leaving.