RENAISSANCE

3. Bitter winter evening

The tarnished mirror reflected an image that seemed foreign, almost unreal to me. In my miserable bathroom, with its tiles chipped by decay, I stood, staring at my reflection in a cold and morose ambiance.

The dim lights accentuated the dark circles under my eyes, witnesses to sleepless nights and unconfessed tears. My pale, almost translucent skin betrayed the indelible marks left by years of solitude and inner suffering.

My loneliness weighed heavily. The weariness was evident on my strained features, a mixture of resignation and a muted despair that had settled deep within me. That desire to live had withered away, replaced by a cold indifference.

With a shiver of disgust, I averted my eyes from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of the shadow I had become any longer. It was as if each fragment of that mirror reflected not only my image but also the echoes of a painful past and a futureless present.

Lowering my gaze, I sought to escape that reflection, but it was engraved in me. I clenched my teeth, holding back the tears threatening to spill from the corners of my eyes.

I felt empty and full at the same time. Empty from the flames that had taken a part of me in their blaze, and full from the feeling of sorrow that had been gnawing at me from within.

I hastily removed the rest of my clothes and stepped under the shower.

I felt like a prisoner of this ruthless city, New York, where every street seemed to remind me of my failure, every anonymous face in the crowd reflecting my isolation. The city's incessant cries pierced my ears. I had believed that everything would be better after leaving California, that I would no longer be plagued by my demons, that this new life would bring me only good. I was completely wrong.

New York brought me no good.

The city was too big, too polluted, too oppressive, and crowded with people. Too many eyes. Too much of everything.

I missed the palm trees of my hometown. The sand, the beach, and the beautiful sunsets too. The sound of the waves and the smell of the ocean greeting me each morning. The salty breeze tickling my nose the moment I stepped outside. This city I had fled after the fire. But don't forget the bad sides too—no, shut up.

I could no longer go back now. I had thought of returning many times, but fear gripped my insides each time. It missed me as much as it frightened me now. Even when I tried to hold onto the good memories, my traumas resurfaced instantly and destroyed them in the process.

Anyway, I was stuck in New York now, unable to afford another change of life, that luxury being nothing but an unattainable dream.

Reflecting on all this, I curled up and let the water flow over my frail body. I thought of the red-orange sunsets, and my tears mingled with the water wetting my face.

As I rubbed my back, I felt those scars under my fingers, immediately withdrawing my hand.

Emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later, dressed and ready to go out, I saw Isaac lying on the bed, tapping on his phone through the open door.

He was wearing only the tracksuit Helia had brought him, and his upper body was wrapped in even more bandages than before, with reddish stains here and there.

I saw rolls of bandages and a pile of medicines and disinfectants on the bedside table. He changed his bandages himself, and I concluded this wasn't the first time he had dealt with such wounds.

I entered the room to retrieve some things from my wardrobe.

Sprawled on the worn-out bed, he scrutinized me. His presence added an enigmatic dimension to the already charged atmosphere of the room. He was there, motionless, his gaze fixed on me, yet he remained a mystery, a closed book whose pages couldn't be turned.