Still There. Short Not-Even-a-Story

Autumn makes things poetic, romantic, and stuff.


“There’s the cinema,” he said, as if to reassure himself, and her, that everything was in its place, everything was the way it’d been the day before, and there was no need to worry.

She noticed little drops of sweat on his forehead, and smiled. Always checking, she thought. Checking if she’s back from work already, checking the weather in the far-away town his mother lives in, checking if the guy next door still likes MMA. In all places, looking for confirmation: “This is for keeps. No one’s going to take it away from you.”

The cinema was there, the moon was barely visible through the smog, but still there, with the footsteps and craters, her hand, as they walked, from time to time brushed his. There were toothbrushes in the cup, and stuff, she wanted to tell him, and that she’d never forget that night, or whatever, she wanted to scream yes, it’s there.

Then she looked at him, saw love and apprehension, still there. Suddenly, she couldn’t utter a word — instead, she looked down confusedly, caught his hand, and pressed it for a moment.


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I'm an unprofessional writer, reader and translator. I'm also a walking, breathing and listening addict. And I love being all that.

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