Forelsket

No one loves you?

Type opens his eyes when the sun is already reaching the zenith. Slightly lifts the edges of the blanket and immediately places it on top. The fireplace — no matter how he braved in front of that fisherman— he could not light it. Type tentatively hangs one leg in a thin cotton sock and puts it on the floor, immediately hiding it under the blanket:

"Damn it!.. It's just a cryocooler here!"

Wrapped up in a blanket and a plaid, bent double and probably looking incredibly funny and ridiculous from the outside, Type still forces himself to get up and find his clothes, as well as put his feet in shoes: knowing where he is flying and where he will live, for some reason he did not bother to buy woolen socks.

The house facilities include electricity, hot water from the boiler, a warm toilet and a shower cabin. There is a gas cylinder, but he was warned that he could use an electric stove, especially since it is unlikely that a lot of cooking will be required for one person.

After washing his face, still shivering from the coolness, Type falls asleep in a blue coffee pot with ground Arabica and, pouring water on it, turns on the gas. While coffee is being brewed and water is boiling separately for instant noodles, Type sits down at the table and looks around.

Well... it's really quiet here.

In any case, Type does not feel that he was abruptly and rudely torn out of his usual environment. Perhaps if Type had not brought with him the burden of the past and present in his head, he could clearly feel that this is a home for the soul, in which there is always a place for picturesque northern landscapes with rocks, the purest lakes, indescribable silence and harmony that reigns everywhere. It is still difficult for Type to imagine what Techno told him when he once again convinced him that everything is special here: nature will embrace you, take away your worries and give freedom to your soul and peace of mind to your heart, which you will bring with you as a valuable gift along with the smell of autumn, hearth and the quiet whisper of water.

After breakfast, Type zips his jacket up to the top and goes outside. He puts his hand in the pocket and discovers a phone forgotten from last night. He is surprised at himself: perhaps this is the first time when he really does not remember that he needs to answer calls and messages, tap on meaningless videos and scroll over the screen — anything to kill time.

Empty days. Empty evenings and nights.

"You could have said right away that you're not serious with me…"

"I thought we understood each other."

Type shakes his head in the manner of a dog brushing dirt from his fur. He doesn't understand why the cruel words and cold looks of almost nine years ago still haunt his thoughts.

I'm thousands of kilometers away now… Why can't it be so that "I'm here, and the problems are there"?

With the mind, the mind of a twenty-seven-year-old man, Type understands that it was very naive to count on "together and forever" at the age of eighteen, especially for him it was the first love in his life and the first relationship ... and a lot of the "first". But it is very difficult, even now, to get rid of the idea that it was you who was rejected and everything happened as if someone just returned a disliked product to the store. Then Type made a promise to himself: he won't step into this sentimental shit again.

Type does not notice how it makes a semicircle around the island. A pile of leaves rustles underfoot. He looks back at his home. Somewhere below, the water is rustling, the wind is playing with decorated foliage and it seems as if the trees are waving yellow and orange palms at him.

Hmm… It is worth admitting: in daylight the cabin is like in the picture.

Still without turning his head back, Type takes a step forward and…