The roar of a car passing by at the last moment on an orange light, followed by the subsequent buzzing of the pedestrian crossing signal, are such distant sounds to me that I begin to doubt their authenticity. I walk blindly along the empty sidewalk, tightly clutching my hands in the pockets of my jacket, with my mind lost in the clouds. I couldn't care less about the tempting aroma of kebab that would normally grab my attention to the point where I'd join the queue at the stall for a meal. Similarly, I show indifference towards the street musicians, who are playing and enjoying themselves despite the late hour. Their music is impulsive, in the vibe of those Cuban rhythms; one couple dances, laughing loudly, while the others beat the drums and strum the guitar strings, creating something abstract, something magical, and yet so different from the rest, which truly has the power to attract, enchant, and captivate.

And yet, I continue on, passing them without any reaction. I don't even know why I'm heading there. I could have blocked his number and forgotten that he ever tried to contact me. After all, our relationship is already in the past, and I swore to myself that I would never think of him again or declare that I would want to see him someday.

Because I don't want to.

I shouldn't want to.

Unfortunately, I surrender to the consuming curiosity that gnaws at me from within, perhaps also fueled by a glimmer of hope that I will hear something that, I don't know, uplifts or satisfies me. Yeah, right! Pleasure? Joy? No chance! I give up. I have no idea what I'm actually expecting from that jerk, considering I remember how everything between us ended.

Yet here he is, reaching out to me now — during this pathetic period where I constantly find myself consumed by thoughts, dreams, and a resigned anticipation for everything to crumble, which feels all too inevitable. It should have sunk into the ground long ago, really. Somehow, though, it managed to elude such drastic consequences, and the weight of those merciless memories became lodged within me, concealed behind a barrier of questionable effectiveness. I tried to shield every thought, every doubt, and every desire from my consciousness, believing it was the only way to protect myself.

It worked. Seriously. It actually held up for quite a while.

Until Newt showed up, accidentally triggering that first crucial element that set off an avalanche of further problems sinking even deeper into my mind. Fucking domino effect. In the end, it turns out that all I had to do was wait for everything to go to hell.

I sigh heavily, stretching my slightly sweaty hands. The cool air instantly sweeps over them, bringing a momentary sense of relaxation. Though I continue to take heavy steps, slouching my back and appearing as if I'm headed for a beheading, slowly, second by second, I come to the realization that all of this is likely happening for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, this conversation will lead to a positive outcome. Perhaps, as a result, I will finally understand that Darren is not worth all this reminiscing, and I can simply let go and forget about him.

I sincerely hope so because I can no longer pretend, deceiving both myself and those around me, that everything is okay. Because it's not, and it never has been, but...

Maybe, just maybe, it will be.

***

Something heavy rises in my throat, and my whole body is overcome by complete inertia. It's all because of a single glance, which is immediately reciprocated, reopening a floodgate of inadequately severed memories during this unexpected encounter.

I hear his deep voice, accompanied by hoarse laughter, inept singing, and nervous clearing of the throat. I even hear an uncontrollable sigh escape his lips when I naively ask if I'm the only one, hoping for some form of confirmation.

I feel his hand on my face, gently sliding along my cheek and grazing my chin. I feel his lips on mine, their eagerness and greed pressing against mine. Yet there's also a tingling sensation and a sense of dissatisfaction stemming from the unwanted separation that I couldn't prevent.

I see his eyes, initially filled with anticipation and delight but gradually transforming into reluctance and weariness. I see his lips forming that mocking smile he once bestowed upon me right here, at the Bench of Solace, when we last saw each other.

And now he has returned.

I'm at a loss for what to make of it all.

"You came after all," he says. Then stands up from our bench, passes by the thumb monument, and stands a little too close. I don't have the courage to look him in the face, so I stare at the tips of my shoes, hoping I don't appear as pathetic as I suspect I do.

He clears his throat and takes a step, but deliberately avoids touching me. Oddly enough, this mere act brings back a faint sense of comfort. My throat feels tight, rendering me unable to speak. I can only stand there, silently observing, even though I'm not quite prepared to do so just yet.

I slowly let my gaze wander over his low combat boots, gradually moving higher and higher. I pause for a moment, fixing my eyes on his bandaged hand. The dressing stretches across his entire forearm, extending slightly beyond the elbow. The idiot got himself into something again.

No. I'm not interested in that.

I return to observing the sand.

"Look at me."

For a moment, I don't react. I want to pretend that I don't hear him, don't see him, and don't know him. But I quickly realize that such behavior won't accomplish anything. It will only prolong this problem, which I particularly don't want to do. Not this time. If I'm finally supposed to be honest, if I'm supposed to stop deceiving everyone around me and pretending that I don't know what they're talking about, I first have to stop lying to myself and finally admit that I am who I am because of Darren.

Or rather, because of the stigma he engraved into my psyche. He left me completely suddenly and unexpectedly, despite previously declaring that he was serious about me and wanted something more.

I give up.

"What do you want?" I tilt my head and lock eyes with him.

He doesn't smile. He looks at me uncertainly, with a gentle yet vibrating tension.

"You've changed," he says. His voice sounds different, too. Not the way I remember it. There's no joy or mockery in it. I sense only distance, and damn it, it truly hurts because it appears that I've become nothing to him over these two years if all he can offer me is this damn neutrality.

Especially because I still vividly remember everything we endured together. I can't gaze at him with a neutral expression; the wounds are still fresh, and I have no intention of concealing them. Particularly since I cared deeply for him, genuinely and wholeheartedly. His influence on me and my life was significant — far too significant for me to simply erase him from my memory.

But since he easily erased me....

I must have been the only one who felt something.

All those nights when I hoped he would finally reach out to me, apologize, and say he made a mistake and didn't want to end what we had between us were just a complete waste of time because he never truly cared about me. Not even for a moment. Not even for a second. Never.

Now I'm starting to understand that.

It's funny how I needed this direct confrontation and a strong slap to the head to realize it.

"You've really changed," he repeats.

And what's even funnier? By pushing away all those feelings — all that hope and bitterness — I've turned myself into exactly the kind of person Darren is.

Into a person I sincerely despise.

And if it weren't for this day, this phone call, and this meeting, I would still delude myself into thinking otherwise.

"But... not everything is different." He exhales sharply, and because he's standing relatively close, I feel his minty breath brushing against my face. I bite the inside of my cheeks to remain indifferent. "You know you still have the same look in your eyes, stuntman?" he says softly.

I immediately start blinking to fight off the treacherous sting of tears. Apparently, I'm still damn weak if something so mundane manages to hit me right in the solar plexus. I don't even have a clue what to say to avoid giving myself away.

But then Darren clears his throat.

"Tell me, are you using protection?"

"What?" I say it in a hoarse voice, coughing briefly to avoid sounding like an old drunk.

"Are you using protection?"

I don't have to. I've slept with someone else only once.

But I'll never admit that to him.

"And why the fuck do you care?" I spread my arms helplessly, grimacing because this question is the last thing I expected if I ever considered it.

Darren sighs, gripping his temples. "Because... You could be sick, Sam."

His words caught me off guard again. I struggle to focus on my own thoughts and Darren's anguished face, trying to make sense of it all. I flinch as birds take off from a nearby tree, their wing flaps echoing through the empty square.

Suddenly, I realize that my hands are shaking unnaturally. I clench them into fists, but it doesn't help.

"What are you talking about? Sick? Like, with what?"

"I had an accident recently." He breathes heavily, with a slight wheezing sound that sends shivers down my spine. "Nothing major, but I had to go through some tests." He raises his bandaged hand.

"I don't get it, Darren. Are you expecting me to pat you on the back and say everything will be okay?"

Darren chuckles briefly, but there's no satisfaction in the sound. It carries clear signs of desperation, making the hair on my neck stand on end. Against my will, I feel guilty, though I shouldn't.

"You could. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so awful," he says, lowering his gaze. A twisted half-smile creeps onto his face. I sense a hint of genuine intention behind his attempt at irony. "I have HIV, Sam. And I have no idea when I got infected with this shit."

I blink dumbly. "What...?" I raise my eyebrows.

The meaning of Darren's words immediately hit me. At first, I don't feel anything out of the ordinary, apart from the tension gradually building in my throat. But eventually, pure terror seeps under my skin, sending unpleasant shivers down my spine.

"You're the first person I'm telling this to." He straightens his back, avoiding my gaze. "I'm not joking. I mean it."

"I—I don't know what to say," I manage to say, too exhausted for sarcasm.

"You don't have to say anything..." He breathes heavily, briefly locking eyes with me. His eyes look defenseless. Almost vulnerable, exactly like that time, for a split second. "I don't expect any comforting words from you, Sam. Not after how we ended things."

Heat rushes to my face instantly.

"For fuck's sake, are you serious?"

Darren doesn't respond.

"This... This..." I feel as if my body is moving on its own. I shift from one foot to the other, running a trembling hand through my hair.

I feel pretty bad about this, but there are so many questions I want to ask him. I want to know what happened to him all this time. I want to ask if he got into philosophy. I want to check if he recovered from his parents' divorce and if it actually happened. I want to understand why he panicked and left me back then. I want to absorb something that will finally allow me to forget.

But... We don't mean anything to each other anymore, do we?

"You haven't changed that much after all, stuntman." He catches my gaze. I catch a glimpse of a shadow of a smile, as if he knows exactly what's on my mind. "You deserve so much more, you know? You always did."

It hits me even harder. "And what about you?" I ask in a fragile voice. I hate myself for what I'm about to say. "If you hadn't... stopped..."

"Stop it." He shakes his head, growing somber. His voice, however, betrays him, letting me know that he's struggling too. "Let's not go back to that."

He turns away. I no longer see his face, marked by suffering, which I once again wanted to find a little too much. "I hope things turn out completely different for you, Sam."

I can't stop him as he walks away. I can't move or turn around because, deep inside me, there's a persistent hope that this meeting is just another of those persistent nightmares.

But it is not, and I start to understand that when, after a long while, the only thing I hear is the distant sound of shattered glass and muffled laughter. It probably jolts me out of my stupor because, in an instant, I inhale the air as if it were my last breath. My arms drop limply, and I part my lips, completely oblivious to the fact that my whole body is tingling with bone-chilling shivers.

Darren has HIV, but he doesn't know for how long. Therefore, I need to get tested soon.

Bloody hell.

I might have HIV!

Something shakes me even harder. I look blankly ahead, trying to piece together my thoughts, which are currently scattered in one big mess. But I know very well that I won't be able to handle them right now.

But that's not all.

Eventually, I realize one more thing.

Every one of those carefree encounters I've mindlessly sought recently, just to feel a hint of closeness and warmth, could have put me at even greater risk than this one time when I let Darren embrace me.

***

Despite the late hour, I slam the door so hard that the pictures hanging near the entrance sway for a moment, one of them even tilting to the side. I stop halfway down the hallway and let go of my jacket, not even thinking of moving from where I stand. My resolution doesn't waver even when footsteps start echoing on the stairs from the floor above, separated from me by just one wall.

Bonnie finally switches on the light, causing me to squint my eyes and grimace slightly. I can already picture her opening her mouth, probably intending to lecture me about my lack of basic manners, but she stops herself at the last moment after glancing at my face. She grows serious.

Meanwhile, I offer a faint smile, which is undoubtedly too abstract. My mind is filled with flashes of memories. I still see Darren, his bandaged hand, and that torn look in his eyes. I hear his voice and Cuban music, and I can almost smell the enticing aroma of street food. The jumble of it all is so irrational that I burst into laughter in an instant, which only pushes my aunt further away.

Very well!

Because, after all I've done, I shouldn't expect any other reaction.

"Auntie, do you remember Darren?" I say.

"Sam, I swear to God—"

"He has HIV, Auntie."

Bonnie freezes, while I continue with even more deranged laughter.

"And there's a chance that I'm infected too."