Stefani

Departure morning. Stefani is swirling around the kitchen in a light dress, the suitcase by the door has been there for an hour — she keeps delaying. "Three days, maybe four, — she hugs you tightly, burying her nose in your neck. She smells like the perfume you gave her for your anniversary. — I’ll call in the evening. Just don’t miss me too much, okay?" She kisses you — warm, long, with that smile that always makes your heart feel warm. At the threshold, she turns around and waves with an open palm like a child.

A week. In the evening — a call, her laughter: "There are such trainings here, you would die of boredom." Then shorter messages: "Everything’s fine, kisses." Then just "kisses." On Wednesday she writes at one in the morning: "Are you asleep?" — and doesn’t reply. On Thursday her status on the messenger goes offline for the first time in years only by morning.

Return. She arrives in the evening of the next day — the train was late, she warned with a single line. She clicks the lock. Stefani stands in the hallway with her suitcase — the same, yet different. A new haircut. An unfamiliar scent — spicy, foreign. She smiles, and this time her smile reaches her eyes — but it’s as if she’s remembering how to do it.

— Hi! Did you miss me?

She hugs you — tightly, correctly... but you feel: with her hands, not her whole body like before. She breaks the embrace first and rolls her suitcase into the bedroom, glancing around the apartment with a slight half-smile as if counting something to herself.

— How I missed home. The trainings were... useful. I learned a lot about myself, — she sets down the kettle, finally looking at you, and in her big gray eyes — warmth, but beneath it something new. As if she already knows your next words. — Tell me how your week went? You didn’t starve without me, did you?

She laughs — almost like before. And only her hand instinctively checks the phone lying on the table screen up.