After we leave the club, we walk home in silence. My mind is flooded with thoughts, yet I can't grasp a single one. I'm not angry at Katrin, but her behavior has left me utterly bewildered. Everything that happened there still clings to me, refusing to let go. I had never seen her like that before — shattered, as if some hidden force was boiling inside her, ready to burst free. Her eyes burned with a rage that wasn't just anger; it was something primal, uncontrollable. It was a true storm that defied restraint. She was beating Marinka as though she were in some other state entirely, and it shook me to my core.
The girl brought it on herself — she didn't understand my hints, and her kiss was clearly unwarranted. But the Rebel Girl's reaction surprises me most of all. I had always seen her as a fragile, gentle girl, someone who avoided conflict. Yet now, I am faced with a force of nature, sweeping everything in its path.
I'm glad Katrin was able to stand up for herself, but unease still gnaws at me. She nearly killed Marinka, and only my intervention stopped her. If I hadn't pulled her away in that moment… The thought won't leave me. Is she not the person I thought she was? What else lies hidden within this girl who seemed so familiar yet remained just out of reach? These thoughts continue to swirl in my head, and I can't find answers to any of them.
I try to blame it on the alcohol, but something doesn't add up. I remember her words to that blonde girl: "He's mine." It wasn't just a statement — there was an unyielding resolve in her voice. Does she really think that? What is she trying to say? Questions buzz in my head, and one in particular haunts me more than the others: she calls me "my boy," but this phrase sounds different than before. I can't pinpoint what changed, but I feel it — she is trying to say something important. Something I cannot yet grasp.
I try to explain her behavior as jealousy, but I immediately doubt myself. Katrin has never been open about her feelings. Despite her outward accessibility, she remains an enigma to me. Now, that enigma has only grown more complex.
When we enter the apartment, I try to calm down and go to get the first aid kit to treat her wounds. But as I take a step toward the bathroom, I freeze — Katrin suddenly stops me, clutching the edge of my shirt. Her gaze is sharp as a knife and pierces right through me. My chest tightens, and it becomes hard to breathe. What does she want to say? What is hidden in her eyes?
"Forgive me," her voice nearly breaks under the weight of tears. "Forgive me, please…"
In that moment, all my thoughts and doubts vanish. The only thing that matters is her. Broken, remorseful, but still mine. Without thinking, I bend down, carefully lift her, and carry her to the couch. The Rebel Girl doesn't resist — on the contrary, she clings to me as though only my arms can save her from the darkness that has overtaken her mind.
I sit down, not loosening my embrace, feeling her body tremble beneath my palm. I slowly run my hand along her back, trying to soothe her, trying to keep her here — right beside me.
"Everything is fine. I'm not angry," I whisper softly, gently wiping her tears with my fingers. But they only flow harder, as if she can't stop this torrent of pain and regret.
I reach for the table, grab a tissue, and place one in her hand. Katrin silently accepts it, blows her nose, and then takes a deep breath, as though trying to pull herself together.
"I ruined everything… We were having such a good time, and I destroyed it all."
I can feel these thoughts eating away at her from the inside, and it causes me almost physical pain.
"You didn't ruin anything," I gently take her by the chin and force her to look me in the eyes. "That girl brought it on herself. She has no sense of conscience or shame. To press her kisses on a person when she wasn't asked… She saw that I didn't want to communicate with her, but she kept going anyway."
Katrin nods silently in agreement, but the pain in her eyes does not disappear. There is more than just despair in them — there is fear, too; the fear that I will see someone else in her, someone I am not used to seeing.
Slowly, almost timidly, she moves closer to me. Her head rests on my chest, and her fingers carefully clutch the fabric of my shirt, as if she is afraid that I will disappear if she lets go.
We sit in silence. The room is quiet, broken only by her gradually steadying breath. I feel the warmth of her body, hear her heart beating quieter and calmer, and I know — she needs only one thing: for me to be near.
Her question comes unexpectedly, shattering the fragile silence we have sunk into.
"What did you think of me when you saw our fight?"
I look at her. Her gaze clings to my face, as if she is trying to read the answer before I can voice it. Something anxious flares in her eyes — anticipation, fear, hope.
"I didn't expect to see such behavior from you."
Katrin frowns, her thin brows tremble, and she quickly lowers her gaze, trying to hide behind that fragile, invisible barrier.
"Did I disappoint you?"
I slowly raise my hand and gently run my palm along her cheek, catching the moment she flinches ever so slightly at the touch. A fleeting, but very significant reaction.
"No," I force her to look into my eyes again. "It's just that I realized there is a lot about you I don't know."
Rebel Girl presses her lips together, as if weighing my words, as if conducting an invisible internal dialogue. Then she looks away, and I notice her shoulders tremble faintly, as if she is gathering her strength.
Tension hangs in the air. Not frightening, but precarious, like thin ice ready to crack at any second, revealing something unexplored.
Katrin takes a deep breath, gathering her resolve, and suddenly, meeting my gaze, says:
"I'm not usually like this. But it infuriated me that she kissed you so brazenly. You are only mine and should only kiss me."
My heart freezes for a moment, and then thuds heavily in my chest. She said it so simply, so confidently, that for a second I lose the power of speech. All this time, I was trying to find an explanation for her actions — alcohol, emotions, stress. But now… Now she herself has dotted all the i's in an instant.
"Were you jealous?" I peer intently at her face, catching the slightest change in the expression of her eyes.
Katrin doesn't answer. She simply moves closer in silence, wraps her arms around me, buries her nose in my chest, and takes a deep breath, as though trying to remember my scent, to hide in it, to find even a drop of peace. I feel her breathing become more even, and I slowly run my fingers through her hair, combing through the soft strands. But I don't get an answer. What does it mean? No? Or, on the contrary, yes, but she is afraid to admit it? Or maybe she hasn't figured out her own feelings yet?
Katrin always knows how to create mysteries. She gives one answer, but immediately leaves behind dozens of new questions. And I don't know — does she do it intentionally… or is she herself confused by what is going on inside her?
I watch her, studying her facial expression. The girl sits motionless, as if pondering something important, but her eyes betray a whole storm of emotions. Her lips are still trembling slightly after the tears, and a damp trail remains on her cheek, which she hasn't wiped away. But even through this fragility, one can read the stubbornness in her gaze — the same one with which she always meets the world.
"I need to treat your lip and forehead so an infection doesn't set in," I stand up from the couch and leave the Rebel Girl where she is.
She doesn't answer, but nods slightly, as if acknowledging that I am right.
In the bathroom, I open the cabinet, take out the first aid kit, and freeze for a moment, having taken a deep breath. I need to get a grip. Tonight has revealed so many new facets of Katrin that I still cannot process them. She is like a complex painting, where every new stroke only complicates the overall image.
When I return, she is still sitting on the couch, not moving, as if time has stopped for her. Only her fingers, clutching the edge of her dress, betray her tension.
I sit down next to her, take out the bandage and antiseptic, soak the cloth in the solution, and carefully touch her lip, starting the treatment from the edges.
"Ouch… That painted monster, I didn't hit her enough, I should have hit her more," the girl snorts, wrinkling her nose.
I don't suppress a smile. It is so like her — to hide her vulnerability behind brash words.
"You said that you don't know me well…" she says unexpectedly, making me look up.
I continue to carefully move the bandage, trying not to cause her any unnecessary pain. The girl occasionally gives a soft "ouch," but she doesn't pull away and doesn't stop me.
"Yes, I said that," I continue to focus on touching her lip and forehead, trying to be as gentle as possible.
"Do you want to know me better? Then you can ask any question, and I will answer. Or did you forget?"
"I didn't forget."
Silence fills the room — not empty and silent, but tense, filled with anticipation. It seemed this conversation was a thin line between the past and the future. One word, one question — and everything could change.
I finish the treatment, carefully pack up the first aid kit, and put it away.
"Done, I've finished," I say this, but I don't rush to stand up.