Rupert and Georgia’s apartment was small, but it always seemed larger on the inside. Not in square meters – in life. The colorful walls, covered with crooked paintings and overlapping photos, gave the feeling that nothing there had been designed to impress. Just to exist. The furniture was simple, inviting, and the warm lighting made everything softer, less threatening.

As soon as she entered, Bea was enveloped by sounds and smells. The background music played softly, filling the silences between conversations. The smell of freshly baked cake dominated the air, mixed with spices, red wine, and something citrusy that she couldn’t identify. The kind of place that made the body relax even before the mind allowed it.

She arrived on time. Against all odds.

During the journey, she had thought about delaying herself for a few minutes. Then, about turning back. She had considered inventing a simple, believable excuse. But Georgia was persistent in an almost touching way, and deep down, Bea knew that if she didn’t show up, she would miss it. And Bea didn’t want to be another burden in someone’s life.

“Bea!” Georgia practically jumped in front of her, a wide smile lighting up her face. She was wearing a light yellow dress with floral prints that seemed to compete with her own good mood. “You actually came! I knew you wouldn’t run away!”

“Run away?” Bea replied, trying to sound lighthearted. “I tried. Three times.”

Georgia laughed, that easy, genuine laugh, and pulled her into a tight hug, too long for someone who didn’t like physical contact. Still, Bea didn’t pull away. The hug smelled of cake, wine, and something comforting, like home.

“And yet she won the battle!” Georgia said, slowly releasing her. “I’m proud of her.”

Rupert appeared soon after, with two glasses of juice in his hand. He handed one to Bea, as if he knew she needed something to hold on to. An anchor.

Georgia got so nervous thinking you were going to give up that she almost made me come and get you by force.

“You guys are exaggerating...” Bea murmured, accepting her drink.

“Of course,” Georgia winked, already turning away to greet other guests. “But that’s part of our charm.”

The room was crowded, but not suffocating. Old friends, neighbors known only by sight, some of Rupert’s work colleagues, all scattered in small groups, laughing too loudly or gesticulating wildly as they spoke. Someone raised a glass toward Bea, and before she could completely hide, she was included in a collective toast.

Shortly after, they placed a generous slice of apple pie in their hands.

She held the plate carefully.

Like someone holding something too fragile to drop—even without knowing exactly why.

There wasn’t even time to refuse. When she realized it, Bea was already seated in one of the corner armchairs, observing the scene as if participating without actually taking up space. That had always been natural to her – being present without being noticed too much, existing on the fringes of the spotlight, as if it were easier that way.

Rupert crossed the room a few times, a cloth draped over his shoulder, serving drinks, telling stories too loudly, laughing easily. Every now and then, his eyes met hers for just a second. There was no pressure there. It was care. A silent, almost imperceptible check: Is everything alright?

And, surprisingly… it was.

Or almost.

There was something in that house that slowly, quietly, dismantled her. The affection without demands. The way Georgia included her without intruding, without overly sharp questions. The way Rupert accepted her silences without trying to fill them with useless words. All of this created small cracks in the armor that Bea wore every day, the one that kept her functioning, but never whole.

The hours passed without her noticing. People said goodbye, others arrived. Laughter mingled with old memories, empty plates piled up in the sink. The world kept turning and, for a rare moment, Bea didn’t feel the urge to turn it off. She didn’t feel that urgency to disappear.

When the activity subsided and the house began to breathe more slowly, Georgia appeared beside her again. He had a glass of wine in his hand and that attentive look that always preceded important questions. She held Bea’s hand firmly, giving her no room for refusal.

“Come with me,” she said. “I need some air.”

And Bea knew, at that moment, that she wouldn’t be able to escape.

She left.

She knew that ‘I need air’ never just meant air. It was code. It always was. Code for ‘let’s talk about what you’re pretending doesn’t hurt’.

The balcony was small, squeezed between buildings, with two slightly rusty iron chairs and a few plants that survived more out of stubbornness than care. The wind passed by uninvited, bending dry leaves and carrying with it the distant scent of the hot city. Georgia sat down first, crossing her legs naturally, and pushed the other chair toward Bea with her foot.

Bea sat down.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Georgia said bluntly. “More so than usual.”

The sigh escaped before Bea could stop it. Automatic. One of those that come out when the body decides to speak before the mouth.

“Just tired.”

Georgia tilted her head, as if she already knew the answer long before she heard it.

“Of course. Tired. Always tired.” she looked at the sky, now stained orange and pink. “But there’s something more. I know that look. I’ve used it many times.”

Bea swallowed hard. She thought about changing the subject, making a joke, commenting on the heat or work. Anything that wouldn’t require opening up anything inside. But there was something in the way Georgia looked at her – firm, unhurried – that didn’t demand explanations. Just the truth.

“Yesterday…” she began, her voice lower than she intended. “Something strange happened in Montenegro.”

Georgia’s body reacted before she could speak any further.

“Did someone bother you?” he asked, his posture subtly shifting. “Was it a customer?”

Bea shook her head.

“Not exactly. I mean… yes. But not in the way you’re thinking.” She rested her elbows on her knees, staring at her own clasped hands, as if they could organize the chaos for her. “A man showed up there. He… had already been to the coffee shop where I worked the day before.”

“Coincidence?”

“That’s what I thought,” Bea breathed deeply. “Until he said my name.’

Georgia frowned.

“Did he know you before?”

"No.” The answer came without hesitation. “I never told him my name. And he spoke as if it were obvious. As if he already knew.”

Georgia remained silent for a moment, processing.

“And are you sure it wasn’t someone from the neighborhood? Or from somewhere you frequent?”

Bea shook her head slowly.

“I do. And there’s more…” she hesitated, feeling that old fear of sounding unstable, exaggerated, too broken. “When he arrived… even before he spoke to me… my wrist started burning. As if there was hot iron under my skin. I looked right away. I thought there was some kind of mark. But there was nothing.”

She waited for a reaction. An embarrassed smile. A joke to lighten the mood. Anything he said was all in his head.

Nothing came.

Georgia simply looked at her. Without laughing. Without doubting. Just listening. And that, in itself, was disconcerting. Too comfortable.

“Are you afraid of him?’ she finally asked.

Bea hesitated to answer. Because fear didn’t seem like the right word.

“I don’t know…” she murmured. “Maybe. But it’s more like something has been… awakened. Like I’ve touched something that shouldn’t exist.”

The afternoon breeze passed between them, cold enough to send shivers down their spines. Georgia brought the wine glass to her lips, lost in thought.

“It might just be my imagination,” she said calmly. “Or it might not be. I really don’t know what it was, Bea. The burning sensation…” she paused briefly. “It usually comes with a name. It’s kind of a rule.”

Bea’s stomach clenched.

“So, am I going crazy?”

Georgia smiled slightly and turned her face towards her.

“If you are, you’re not alone.” Then she added: “But trust your intuition. Always.”

“Even if it sounds crazy?”

“Especially if it seems crazy.” The smile was now real. “Some truths are too strange to seem real.”

Bea stood there, gazing at the sky, feeling that old weight in her chest—the same weight that never went away, only changed form. But, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t seem to be crushing her alone.

And that, in itself, was already dangerous.

A half-smile escaped, one of those that doesn’t reach the eyes, but still counts as an attempt. Georgia’s voice had this strange effect: it didn’t promise fixes, it didn’t push solutions. It was just… presence. Sometimes, that was all Bea could bear.

“Thank you…” she murmured, so softly it almost sounded like a poorly formed thought.

Georgia moved closer and rested her shoulder against Bea’s. The touch was light, respectful, measured at the exact limit of what Bea could tolerate without feeling violated.

“You know you don’t have to carry everything alone, right?” she said. “You have us.”

Bea didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to, but because those words struck a nerve. A place that hurt in an old way.

Inside, something recoiled. Not out of distrust, she believed. She truly believed. The problem was never feeling alone. The problem was feeling too heavy to share. As if everything about her was excessive: too much sadness, too much silence, too much tiredness.

Still, the phrase stuck. It lodged itself somewhere in my heart, where perhaps it would take root over time. You have us.

Perhaps Bea didn’t know how to use it yet. Perhaps she didn’t even fully believe in it.

But, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t seem impossible.