It's been one month and two weeks.
Forty-four days, well over a thousand hours —
and I felt every second of it.
I went to every place that held a piece of her, every spot we walked, every moment we shared.
But none of them led me to the one I still wait for.
It's strange how quickly you get used to someone.
So much that their absence feels like a wound you can't stop pressing.
She was a stranger — I knew almost nothing about her.
And yet, I knew I needed her.
I asked around — at the shrine, at the festival paths — hoping someone had seen her.
But all I had was a name and a memory.
People looked at me like she didn't exist.
But I know damn well… she does.
---
I decided to go to Noah's studio — for the first time in years.
To finally tell him about her.
To ask for help.
Noah, now a well-known artist, still always had time for me.
But I was nervous — the world still saw me as the kid of wonders, a name I no longer believed in.
On my way there, something strange happened.
The wind — soft and scented — carried something familiar.
A trace of her.
I followed it. Without thinking. Without questioning.
And it led me to an old, abandoned house tucked behind a cliff.
A quiet, forgotten place.
And in front of it — a garden.
A wild, beautiful garden of white roses... and a few of them, painted red.
Only she could be this strange and this beautiful.
Only she would paint roses red.
I stood there, hoping she'd appear.
But no one came.
Eventually, I left.
But this time, I carried a few red roses with me — the ones Noah loved.
And a piece of her scent in the wind.
---
It took nearly half an hour to reach his studio.
As always, people recognized me instantly.
Swarmed me.
Some wanted a photo. Others just a word.
They didn't see me — they saw what I used to be.
Noah came out laughing, like he always did.
"You're still as popular as ever."
I laughed "I think I've got more fans than you in your own territory."
> "I have no chance against the kid of wonders," he grinned.
We laughed — loud and real — like we used to.
"I wonder if I'll ever write again," I said, this time not joking.
Noah tilted his head and smiled which reminded me of her.
"It wasn't the poems that made you special. It was you.
And I think you're finding that guy again.
Maybe he's even better than the kid of wonders."
I looked around his studio —
the walls painted with color and soul. His art always looked like it was alive and breathing.
"Do you like it?" he asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"I don't like it. I love it." I calmly said
"Still nothing compared to your poetry," he said.
"Nah," I smiled. "Your art speaks louder."
"I need brush and paint to express something.
You Did with just words while making them rhyme."
---
I hesitated before speaking again.
"Noah… I need to talk to you about something."
His expression changed. Calm, but alert.
"What is it? You need help?" he calmly said
I was going to tell him about Sofia. I really was.
But something stopped me.
Something in me didn't want to share her with the world yet — not even with Noah.
Not yet.
But Noah read me anyway.
"You don't have to explain. If you're not ready, I get it."
Noah always knew when to ask… what to ask and when not to.
We spent the rest of the evening painting together.
And just like that — it felt like old times.
---
When I got up to leave, he walked me to the door.
"You're not gonna sleep tonight, are you?" he said, half-laughing.
"Didn't plan on it."
"Call me if you need to talk. I've got canvases to finish anyway." he calmly said
"I skip on that offer ."
> "As you wish but remember I'll still be up."
I didn't call him. But I appreciated him more than I said.
---
That night, I walked by the ocean again.
The same beach where I first found her.
I sat in the same spot we did. Let the waves touch my feet. Let the wind hold me.
It was warm. Familiar.
Strangely comforting — like a hug I didn't know I needed.
I would've given anything just to hear her laugh again.
But the silence stayed.
As it got dark, I walked home slowly.
And with every step, it felt like she was walking beside me.
Like she was stitched into every streetlight and memory.
These streets I grew up on —
where I played with Noah,
where I used to walk with my parents to buy sweets —
none of them knew her.
But now, they all reminded me of her.
---
When I got home, I went up to the terrace —
for the 45th night in a row.
Held the black rose.
Stargazed.
Waited.
I didn't know if I loved her or not.
But I knew I couldn't stop thinking about her.
I got up to go back inside —
but the wind didn't let me.
It wrapped around me like a presence, asking me to stay just a little longer.
Just like she used to.
Eventually, I did go inside.
Pulled out one of my old poems.
Burned it in the air — an old habit I never outgrew.
But the wind carried something soft. Something scented.
The wind that wrapped me…
Started to smelled like love.
And just for a second —
I swear —
it felt like Sofia had read my heart…
and hugged me tight.
---