For you, I'd stand still

Eleven O'Clock

The weeks pass in a blur of joyful moments and enthusiastic conversations. We drift through the streets of Vienna like we're suspended in time, the city's rhythm slow and deliberate, like the ticking of an unseen clock. Each step feels lighter than the last, but beneath it all, there's still that strange hum - constant, insistent, like a thread pulling me in two directions. I don't know if it's the weight of my past catching up with me, or something else, but it's there. Always. I choose to ignore it as much as I can, because I feel like I'm reborn.

Mateo shows me the world again, along with Ilsy, whom we went to get and bring here to live with us.

We wander through parks where the trees have started shedding their leaves, painting the ground in hues of gold and amber. We spend hours in cafés tucked away in corners, sipping coffee, the clink of spoons against porcelain cups a soundtrack to our conversations, sometimes sitting for hours. I learn to let the weight of my memories fall from my shoulders, even if just for a moment. Mateo makes it easy to smile, to laugh, to be in the present. I don't know how he does it, but he does. His and Ilsy's lightness fill the empty spaces I've been holding for so long, and for the first time in years, I feel like I'm not sinking under the pressure.

One afternoon, we return to the small apartment I'd rented a long time ago. The walls are still bare, the air still heavy with the remnants of my quiet solitude. Ilsy's askeep and Mateo and I sit on the floor, surrounded by the few boxes of my forgotten belongings. He helps me sift through them. I find old journals, the pages yellowed and cracked with age. There are photographs - my parents, smiling, their faces youthful and full of life. I find pictures of me as a child, my hand wrapped in my father's as he guides me through the paint-splattered walls of the studio. I look at the girl in the pictures, and she feels like a stranger, a version of myself that I thought was lost.

But as I flip through the pages of my old journals, something shifts. I begin to see a pattern, a thread running through my words. There's pain, of course. The grief of losing my parents, the way their absence hollowed me out, my old life lost. But there's also hope, scattered between the lines - a hope that I'd forgotten, buried beneath years of pretending. I smile softly as I read the words from a girl who once believed in something. I close the journal, and for the first time in so long, I feel a kind of peace settling over me. My parents are gone, yes, but they are still with me in ways I hadn't felt before. Their love, their lessons - they're not gone. They're woven into the fabric of who I am.

That evening, at precisely eleven o'clock, I stand before the mirror in my bathroom. The girl in the reflection is unfamiliar, but not in the way she used to be. I run a hand through my hair, stare at the softness in my face, and the edges of the world seem to come into sharper focus. It's as if, for the first time, I'm allowing myself to see the truth of who I am, not through the lens of grief or fear, but as a person who has the ability to move forward.

I exhale, feeling a weight lift.

Mateo is always there, a constant presence. He listens, he encourages, he never pushes. He's become a reminder that I don't have to carry all of this alone. He shows me the small joys of life that I had forgotten: the taste of chocolate cake at an old bakery, the colourful music that drifts out of a bar at midnight, the way sunlight filters through the trees in the park, painting everything in warm hues. He helps me learn to breathe again. He helps me feel normal, like I belong.

But even through it all, the tingling remains.

Some days, it's faint, like the static on the edge of my vision, barely noticeable. Other days, it's stronger, pressing against my bones, like my own body is turning against me. It's not enough to paralyse me, but it's there. Always.

And I can't ignore it anymore. Not when it's starting to feel like something real. It's like a warning, a subtle thrum that keeps reminding me: I'm not done with you yet. I regarded that as a blessing sometimes, the need to move, but it has shapeshifted into a curse again. I try not to let it bother me. I try to forget how it reminds me of the truth. I try to ignore it as we walk through the city, as we sit in cafés, as I stand in front of the canvas in the abandoned studio again, this time with paintbrush in hand, finally able to add to the work that has been waiting for so long.

"I'm glad you came back," Mateo says one night as we stand in the glow of the studio's moonlit windows, watching the stars flicker above the city. He doesn't need to say anything more. I know what he means. It's not just about the studio, or the painting, or even the past. It's about me - about who I am now.

"I'm glad you were there," I answer, my voice thick with emotion. "I couldn't have done it without you. You are my anchor."

He smiles, his hand brushing against mine. "Your anchor, huh?"

"Yes," I say and breathe out a light chuckle. "In fact, I've always thought of you that way, from the first moment I met you."

"I like being your anchor. I'll always be here. But you're the one who made the choice to move forward, Rose. That's all you."

It's a beautiful moment. But the tingling won't let me forget. It's still there, underneath the surface, waiting, turning into burning pain. I'm not sure if it's my mind trying to make sense of everything, or if it's something more - something darker, something physical that I can't outrun. Something...deadly.

I've begun to wonder if Mateo sees it too. There are moments when his gaze lingers, a softness in his eyes that tells me he's aware of something I haven't said. Maybe he knows that I haven't fully let go. Not of the past, and not of the thing that haunts me - whatever it is, whatever it might become.

And I wonder, if I stand still for too long, will I disappear? Will I fade into nothingness, trapped in my own body, unable to move forward? Will I leave a trail of ruin behind like I feared I would? Will they forget about me and move on? Am I projecting? Am I thinking too much about myself? Why does it have to be like this?

The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as we sit in silence beneath the moonlight.

I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something, something I can't fully see. And I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

For now, though, I hold on to the thought that maybe - just maybe - I'm learning to grow in ways I didn't think were possible.

But the tingling and pain remain, an unsettled hum beneath the surface, a reminder that I still don't have all the answers. And maybe I never will.