SHE and HIM.

She knew that if she left now, she would close behind her not only the door to his apartment, but his entire world—their world, their reality.

She hesitated on the threshold, pressing the doorknob. Perhaps she should help him? Perhaps she should at least try? No. She couldn't help, she couldn't try. Locked in the inner world of her own madness, she was indifferent to the world.

He didn't ask her to stay. He didn't want to force her, he had no hope for her affection. He had once been different, once he would have turned away from love without a shadow of a doubt, without a second thought. He had once had many girlfriends, once he was fascinated by gaining new experiences, playing appropriate roles, thus penetrating the minds of others. Once—before he met her.

Everything in his life changed when she crossed the threshold into his interior. She was the only one who could see deep into his world and create there her own, worthy of a vast empire. She had turned his life upside down, forcing his thoughts with indifference, stirring up doubts with words. He didn't know how the feeling had first arisen within him, when he'd begun to grow attached to her, and eventually miss her.

He didn't want to think about it. He was sitting on the rough carpet now, a carefully placed line of amphetamines in front of him. His mind was blank, even though hundreds of thoughts were digging a huge hole into which he was slowly falling. He didn't want to answer any questions – he knew he'd eventually realize what he'd lost and begin to regret not keeping her.

Her shoes were already laced, her jacket zipped up, and she held an umbrella. Nothing was keeping her here, and yet she was questioning herself whether what she was doing was right. She wasn't about to dwell on it – that wasn't her style. She always made split-second decisions, going with the flow, regardless of the consequences. But this time, she was doing something against herself. Because she didn't want to leave at all, she didn't want to cross that threshold at all. Something was keeping her here. Him? Or perhaps it was simply a magic powder that transported him to another dimension? She didn't know, didn't want to know.

She yanked the doorknob open, flung it open, and ran out without a backward glance.

The sound of the slam echoed through his room, filling the emptiness of his mind with an unbearable scream. He had nothing left to lose.

He leaned over the mirror with the smudged line on it, and plugged his right nostril with his finger. For a split second, he saw his bloodshot eyes in the dirty mirror, then quickly closed them. He inhaled. And nothing mattered anymore. He forgot.

She slammed the door behind her, into his stairwell, into his apartment building, into his yard. It was no longer their home, their concrete sidewalk, their playground.

Was she sad? Did she regret it? Did she feel guilty? Did she feel anything at all? She ran, running, to avoid thinking, for the wind to cleanse her of the last remnants of doubt. She didn't stop for a moment, all the way home. She covered several blocks, several familiar alleys. Only on her own staircase did she breathe a sigh of relief that her nightmare was over.

He was far away. He lay on the floor with outstretched arms and flew. He was a butterfly, he was the pilot of a huge plane, a bird, and finally he was an angel with enormous, shimmering wings. Thousands of colors of unprecedented hues, flashes of light in shades never before seen, penetrated in fractions of a second.

He was in Paradise. In his own Paradise of oblivion.

"Are you back already? I hoped you'd stay longer," her mother greeted her reproachfully from the doorway.

"No..." she said casually. She took off her jacket and shoes, set her umbrella aside, turned off the hall light, and hid in the darkness of her room.

Despite the early hour (the clock was only striking 11:00 PM), five minutes after going to bed, she fell asleep.

She dreamed of a door. A huge oak door, with an equally huge gold doorknob. From the side, she observed the entire scene, as if watching a movie. But this wasn't a movie—this was her dream—an image conceived from within.

A small creature stood before the door—a girl with green eyes, in a white lace dress. She stretched her tiny hands upwards to grasp the large doorknob, to reach the other side of the secret gate. With all her strength, she tried to grasp the handle, but to no avail.

Suddenly, she burst into a deafening cry of helplessness. She began to cry horribly, jump, and stamp her tiny feet. Her white slippers clattered against the marble floor, making a loud sound that echoed clearly.

She quickly tired, seeing no effect from her efforts. She doubted the point of continuing and stopped crying. She sat down across from the door and began to carefully examine the enormous doorknob. Bored, she quickly curled up on the floor and fell asleep.

She woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. The room was terribly stuffy. Unconscious, she opened the window and returned to bed. For a second, she didn't know what was happening around her, but a moment later, she regained consciousness.

She remembered her dream. She never ignored night visions, subconsciously searching for signs, not necessarily convinced of their impact on reality. And suddenly she realized that the helpless girl from her dream was herself. She was frightened, but she ignored her premonitions.

She believed she had once and for all shed her humanity – feelings and emotions, fear and anxiety, love and hatred. She trusted that this would be for the best.

He sobered up late at night. He lay on the carpet the entire time, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was no longer a butterfly, no longer a pilot, no longer a bird, no longer an angel. And he had no wings at all, and there was no green meadow full of flowers beneath him. His back ached from the hard floor, he was hungry, and he had no desire to fly anywhere anymore. Mechanically, he stood up and went to the kitchen to quench his thirst.

Every corner seemed empty now without her. He felt like he was in a strange apartment. Nothing held the same character as before, everything was strangely bland.

And this was only the beginning, these were only the first few hours. He could ease it; he could make one phone call and distract himself from the pain. Maybe this time, instead of wings, he would have, for example, the great sword he had always dreamed of? He would have everything, everything he wanted, anything he desired. The problem wasn't a lack of money or fear of addiction—he and she had promised each other something long ago.

"You'll never snort without me, and I without you," she said one beautiful, sunny morning.

"Never," he replied.

Yesterday he broke his promise for the first time, but yesterday he wasn't himself. Remorse would kill him if he did it again, this time in complete sobriety. He wanted to honor the one flawless vow in his life, he wanted to honor the memory of the one pure being in his life.

He went to bed with tears in his eyes. He didn't hide his suffering from himself—in the silence of his own, otherwise empty apartment, he opened his soul full of pain. He cried.

She fell asleep feeling helpless, unwilling to live. She buried fear and pain deep within herself. Carefully hidden, forgotten—forever buried, as she thought—emotions prevented her from resting in peace.

Days passed, nights passed. She felt nothing, suppressing her thoughts; he felt all too much. He hadn't broken his promise to himself or her—he hadn't touched amphetamines since that fateful evening. It wasn't difficult for him; after all, their drug adventure hadn't lasted long. She, too, had held back, despite her immense desire.

They'd met on the street a few times, said hello, and passed each other indifferently. But for them, the world revolved solely around them—for her, nothing existed but him, though she refused to admit it. He thought of no one else but her. They lost themselves—she unconsciously, he with the fullness of their selves.

And that's where it all could have ended – she would have graduated high school with a passing grade in history, gone to the college her parents dreamed of, met a well-mannered man there, met for coffee a few times, and then gone to bed. Over time, she would have decided she would never meet anyone more worthy of her life. Perhaps he would even manage to snatch her from the void, tell her he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of her life this way. She would have stopped there, fearing loneliness, married him, given birth to three children, lived to old age, and died.

He would have finished his studies, found a stable job, made a few pennies, sold his parents' apartment, and left the country, as he had always dreamed of. He would have returned to his old life – many women without commitment or affection. Finally, he would have met one who best met his expectations, won her favor, as with hundreds before him, proposed in some expensive restaurant with a pre-made ring. She, captivated, would agree; they would live together, then have two children, grow old together, and die.

And so they would both pass each other by in their own worlds, forget about each other, leaving behind every other pleasant memory. Everything could have unfolded in that standard, ordinary, and banal way. It could have, if it weren't for her, or rather, the higher power that guided her during the most difficult moment of her life.

"And how?" her mother looked at her unconvinced. Her daughter's earlier assurances had forever dashed her hopes of passing her final exams.

"I told you a month ago.

" "So you failed?!" her mother raised her voice. "What a shame! I really didn't think you were so stupid. You couldn't even afford a measly thirty percent!" she shouted.

"Shut up!" She couldn't bear the tension.

Her mother approached her and slapped her across the face. The gesture was spontaneous, imprecise, yet painful. She only heard a muffled whisper, "Get out." She was shocked. Instinctively, she clutched her cheek. Her mother went to the kitchen, leaving her alone.

Without a second thought, she grabbed her bag, opened the door, and ran out. She knew where to go; her legs carried her. She'd wanted this from the moment she crossed the threshold of his house, leaving him on a trail of amphetamines.

She wanted to see him, to hug him, to kiss him. To be like before—gestures without strings attached, freedom of action without feelings or emotions. To draw more of the poison of the flesh from this toxic relationship than the pleasure of feelings. All this at the cost of his commitment, and her fear. Now she knew she'd fled then, fearing love. Because she didn't want to love, she didn't want to admit to herself that she was capable of love.

She had the keys to his apartment and opened the door without a second thought. From the threshold, she smelled a familiar scent—a wonderful blend of his intense perfume, cigarette smoke, fresh bread, the aroma of the coffee he drank every morning. This was the scent of his small apartment, the scent of his world.

She was trembling, yet a strange peace filled her. She knew she would soon see him, that she would exchange more words with him than a silly "hello." Happiness in pain filled her. She was afraid to trust her own intuition. He could be gone, she could find him with another woman, or worst of all, she could see him high.

She hesitantly took off her shoes and entered the room where he usually spent days like this—after all, over the two years of their "relationship," she had gotten to know him well. She wasn't mistaken. He stood with a cigarette in his hand, staring out the window. He didn't even flinch when she entered.

"I want the path," she announced from the threshold. Without any introduction, a simple "hey, how are you?" After nine months of separation.

He turned around.

"Is that why you came?" he asked, looking at her intently.

"Yes, that's why.

" "But I don't want to," he said casually, turning towards the window.

"I'm not asking you to come with me. I came for permission.

" "And what if I don't give it to you?

" "You know perfectly well I won't break my promise. I'll leave and never come back." A moment of silence. "And over time I'll start to regret ever coming here. "

Silence.

"You didn't pass, did you?" he suddenly broke the silence.

"I didn't pass.

" "Do you think she'll save you? That she'll let you forget? Even if she does, for how long—an hour, two, three? And then what? Will you come home, or leave before she completely enslaves you, and then what?" he said expressionlessly. His voice was bland and empty.

She was silent for a moment.

"You know perfectly well why I'm here," she said suddenly. She was terrified, quickly analyzing the meaning of those words in her head.

"I know, but do you know?" He turned to her and began to study her.

She felt as if his gaze were scanning her, that what he was doing wasn't real—that this was another one of her dreams. But this time she had power, she had influence over what could happen, what was supposed to happen. Why had she waited so long?

"I love you," she said. Inside her was everything—anger, fear, anger, peace, longing, joy, laughter, screams, silence. Millions of feelings, thousands of thoughts—each with a different meaning, each telling her one thing—you love Him.

" "I love you too," he replied calmly.

But he had never felt such an emptiness inside him, never wanted to free himself from those words as he did now. He was happy.

They stood motionless opposite each other. For the first time, they spoke silently, observing only each other's eyes. For the first time, she, looking at him, saw his wings, and he, seeing her, felt her scream inside him.

"I don't want this to be just a dream," he said suddenly.

"This isn't a dream," she replied.

Neither of them knew how they found themselves in each other's arms, then they went to bed and made passionate love. It was her first time with a man, he had made love to such a woman.

They woke up tangled in a single embrace. He wasn't asleep when she opened her eyes. He was staring at her the entire time, observing her sleep. He smiled as soon as she opened her eyes. She kissed him lightly in gratitude, snuggled tightly against his body, and fell asleep again. He kept watch.

That same day, she returned to her house to get her things. They both decided it would be better if she moved out of her parents' house. And so she did, without even warning them. She simply left.

Stop. What now? A wonderful life together for the rest of their lives? Did they both realize what they had done? Did either of them know the burden they were placing on themselves? Anyone, at any moment, could realize love, escape life, and devote themselves forever to another person. Anyone, but them.

Did you predict a bright future for them? A wonderful feeling full of sacrifice, passion, fascination? After all, they loved each other so much.

No.

Everything changed when he stopped coming home at night. It was summer, exactly two years after she had entered his apartment. They lived wonderfully during that time—a shared apartment, a shared life, a shared world—how beautiful that sounds, don't you think? They were happy, truly happy.

She worried why he wasn't around so often, why he had become strange, different—secretive. She knew something was troubling him, but he couldn't tell her.

"Love sometimes holds secrets. I'm doing this for her good," he thought. He lied to both himself and her. She was slowly descending into a sick madness, and he kept telling her everything was fine.

One summer morning, he woke her up early.

"I'm going out," he announced.

"Why are you waking me? Is something wrong?" She was sleepy, half-conscious.

"I'm leaving everything to you," he said. "I'm going out for a long time, but I'll be back," he added.

"Where are you going?" she panicked.

"I'll be back. I'll definitely come back to you.

" "Tell me, where are you going?!" she raised her voice.

"I was accused of drug dealing. They sentenced me to five years," he said dryly.

"What?!" she exploded. She jumped out of bed and threw herself into his arms, tears streaming down his face. He didn't move. "Why didn't you say anything?" she cried.

"I'll come back to you, darling. I'll be back. Just wait for me." He pushed her away and left. He left and never returned. And she waited.