Chapter 16 — What you call running away

For twenty-four hours, I didn’t withdraw my name.

Which, by the modest standards of my inner life, almost counted as action.

I didn’t answer Mathilde either.

Which probably counted less.

The email remained open in one tab.

Then closed.

Then reopened in a separate window, as though geographical separation on the screen might produce a decision.

The title hadn’t moved.

A Generation Trapped Inside.

It hadn’t apologized.
It hadn’t realized its mistake in my absence.

Very disappointing behavior from a sentence.

I had started several replies.

The first was too polite.

“Thank you for the text. I understand the proposed direction, but I might like to qualify a few points.”

Might.
Qualify.
A few points.

It sounded as though I were asking for less cilantro in my soup.

Deleted.

The second simply said:

“I don’t want my work presented from this angle.”

I had stared at it for four minutes.

Too naked.

Deleted too.

The third proposed an alternative text. After two paragraphs, I was explaining what I did, what I didn’t do, and what I especially didn’t want anyone to think I did.

The result sounded like someone falling down a staircase while trying not to spill a full glass.

Deleted.

At seven, the draft read:

“Hi Mathilde,

I’m getting back to you about the wall text. I understand the overall cohesion of the section, but the interpretation centered on confinement feels removed from my work. My images are more about traces, habits, quiet presences, and spaces that remain inhabited even when they seem calm. I’m concerned that the title and some of the language direct the viewer too strongly toward an interpretation I don’t recognize.

Could we discuss it?”

It was fine.

Measured.
Usable.

I hadn’t sent it.

I had remained in front of it long enough for Eugène to climb onto my lap, not out of affection, but because he regarded my stillness as the availability of heated furniture.

“Not now.”

He settled in anyway.

A highly personal understanding of negotiation.

I reread the final sentence.

Could we discuss it?

Reasonable.
Small.
Not aggressive.

I could send it.

I didn’t.

Instead, I reopened the PDF.

Mistake.

A Generation Trapped Inside.

I closed it.

Then opened the folder containing my images.

The kitchen.
The table.
The studio.
The window.
The hallway.

Since the previous day, they no longer obeyed me.

Before, I had known where to look. The light. The mug. The space left by a body. The small disorders that said a presence had shifted the air.

Now every image seemed to accept the wrong interpretation with troubling passivity.

The chair could be abandoned.
The window, a refusal to go outside.
The studio, somewhere you remained because you didn’t know how to go anywhere else.

I hated myself for doing that to them.

For searching my own drawings for evidence against them.

Or against me.

I closed the folder.

On the couch, the cushion still held a slight indentation.

Not really.

Liora had left two nights ago. Cushions returned to their original shape. A fundamental property of cushions and a mediocre consolation of domestic life.

But I knew where she had sat.

And where I had stopped.

Almost.

A useless word.

Very cumbersome.

I returned to the draft and placed the cursor over Send.

The button was blue.

Very blue.

A color far too enthusiastic for a decision like this.

I could click, then wait. Mathilde might answer the next day. Maybe she would suggest a call. Maybe she would say the text had already been printed, that the overall framework couldn’t be changed, that I had misunderstood the project from the beginning.

Or maybe she would simply reply:

“Of course. Let’s talk.”

An almost more alarming scenario.

Then I would need to know what to say.

My phone vibrated.

“Did you answer?”

Liora.

Direct.

Obviously.

“Not yet.”

“Tell me you’ve at least written something.”

“Yes.”

“Sent it?”

“No.”

The three dots returned almost immediately.

“Can I come over?”

No would have been possible.

Simple.
Legitimate.

I had the right to be alone with my draft, my newly suspicious rooms, and my heavy cat.

I typed:

Yes.

Deleted it.

“Sure.”

Pathetic answer.

“I’m coming.”

Less than two minutes later, someone knocked.

Not loudly.

But quickly.

I opened the door.

Liora stood on the landing in a dark sweatshirt, hair tied crookedly, crossbody bag over one shoulder. She looked as though she had crossed the hallway while already beginning the conversation in her head.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

She entered when I stepped aside.

Not hurriedly.

With enough energy to fill the room.

I closed the door.

The studio contracted.

Not like the other evening.

Liora placed her bag on the floor without asking. The Eugène pretext didn’t even appear. He was beside the couch, but neither of us pretended he was the subject.

Her gaze went to the screen.

“Is that your message?”

“Yes.”

“Can I read it?”

I didn’t like the speed of the question.

“It isn’t finished.”

“Exactly.”

She approached.

I didn’t move.

She read the draft.

Her eyebrows drew together at “feels removed.”

Her mouth tightened at “I’m concerned.”

“It’s good,” she said. “It’s clear.”

“Okay.”

“You have to send it.”

There.

Simple.
Predictable.
Not violent.

Still, I felt myself step backward.

“I’m going to think about it.”

She turned her head.

“You’ve already thought about it.”

“Not enough.”

“Aurèl.”

I didn’t like my name inside that sentence.

Not tonight.

“What?”

“You can’t stay stuck on this for three days.”

“I’m not stuck.”

She looked at the draft.

“You’ve had an email written since yesterday and you aren’t sending it.”

“That’s called not sending an email immediately.”

“So, being stuck.”

I fell silent.

She leaned against the desk. Too close to the screen. Too close to the message. Too close to my images.

“If you don’t agree with the text, you say so. You ask for a discussion. That’s normal.”

“I know.”

“Then send it.”

I looked toward the window.

The Plexiglas on the balcony reflected a blurred version of the studio. A room superimposed over itself.

“I’m not sure I still want to exhibit.”

Silence fell.

Sharp.

Liora straightened.

“What?”

“If the text stays like this, I don’t know whether I want my images there.”

“You want to withdraw?”

“I’m considering it.”

The word entered the room like a chair placed in the middle of a passageway.

Liora remained still for a second.

Then her energy returned more forcefully.

“No.”

I looked at her.

“No?”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can.”

“Technically, yes. But it isn’t a good idea.”

“I never said it was.”

“With you, considering something for long enough often turns it into an emergency exit.”

The sentence struck me.

Not in the right place.

I felt my face close.

She continued because she hadn’t seen it yet.

Or because she thought she needed to keep going anyway.

“You worked for this exhibition. You chose the images. You showed me your sketchbooks. You can’t give up because one text is bad.”

“It isn’t giving up.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No. If the presentation says the opposite of what I’m doing, I can decide not to put my name on it.”

“Then you ask them to change it. You don’t leave.”

“Do you think I haven’t considered that?”

“I think you’ve considered it so much that you’re circling around it.”

A brief laugh escaped me.

Without humor.

“Fine.”

She heard the shift.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you become polite.”

I crossed my arms.

Bad sign.

“I’m not being polite.”

“Yes, you are. You close every door and put a welcome mat in front of it.”

I looked at her.

She was worried.

I could see that.

She wasn’t trying to win an argument. She saw something that mattered to me and the possibility that I might move away from it. She was approaching it with her own weapons.

Speed.
Action.
Refusal to let go.

It was almost beautiful.

And it made me want to retreat farther.

“You don’t understand.”

She took the hit.

“Then explain.”

“I’m trying.”

“No. You say, ‘You don’t understand,’ and stop.”

Her voice wasn’t loud.

Neither was mine.

The studio was shrinking anyway.

“Because whenever I explain, you turn it into a plan. Send. Answer. Correct. Don’t run away. Don’t sabotage yourself.”

“Because maybe you are sabotaging yourself.”

The word landed between us.

Sabotaging.

It made more noise than expected.

Eugène turned his head.

Even he seemed to think the atmosphere had become unpleasant.

“You think that?”

Liora inhaled.

She could have stepped back.

She didn’t.

“I think you’re afraid, and you’re capable of calling that a boundary.”

I remained very still.

With me, stillness sometimes looked like calm.

Here, something was lowering the shutters from inside.

“Okay.”

Liora went slightly pale.

“I didn’t mean it as an attack.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you answering as though I’ve become someone against you?”

I didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t against me.

And because part of me still felt surrounded.

Difficult to explain without becoming unfair.

“You aren’t against me.”

“Then let me help you.”

“This isn’t necessarily helping.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Watching you withdraw isn’t helping either.”

“I’m not withdrawing from a race, Liora.”

The sentence stopped her.

Me too.

I continued anyway.

“This isn’t a race.”

She crossed her arms.

“I know.”

“No. You listen to me as though it is.”

The silence was sharp.

Liora remained beside the desk, shoulders tense.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you want me to move forward. To get through it. To win against something. Maybe against myself. Maybe against my fear.”

I looked at the screen.

“I only want to avoid lying about what I made.”

She received the sentence.

Not enough to resolve anything.

Enough to hurt.

“I never wanted you to lie.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t say that.”

“I’m not saying you want me to. I’m saying you don’t always see the difference between pushing me and moving me.”

She took half a step backward.

Very little.

Enough.

I regretted the sentence as soon as it was out.

Because it was true in a way that was too harsh.

Liora looked down.

With her, closing off looked like energy that no longer knew where to go.

“I thought I was on your side.”

“You are.”

“Apparently, I move you.”

“I didn’t say...”

“Yes, you did.”

I fell silent.

The word was out.

It belonged to her now.

Demitrius moved in his corner, knocked over a piece of wood, then froze as though understanding that it was better not to draw attention.

Liora ran a hand over her forehead.

“I don’t want to force you. I want you not to disappear from your own work.”

“I’m not disappearing.”

“You’re talking about removing your name.”

“Because the presentation doesn’t fit.”

“Then change it.”

“You’re doing it again.”

She fell silent.

I saw the effort.

Physical.

Waiting.

Not attacking.

Not taking the bend immediately.

“Okay,” she finally said. “What do you want to do?”

The question should have helped.

It came too late.

Or I was too closed to receive it.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

She nodded.

“Okay.”

The word was colder.

Not hostile.

Tired.

She sat on the edge of the couch. I remained standing, then took the desk chair at an angle.

The open message between us.

“When I saw your sketchbooks,” she said, “I thought you had to show that. Not to prove anything. Because it exists. Because it matters. And it makes me angry to see you let someone else make you doubt it.”

Her voice trembled slightly at the end.

Sad anger.

Or fear.

“See?”

“What?”

“You said ‘let’ again. Like I’m passive.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Then stop taking every word I say in the worst possible way.”

I fell silent.

She was right too.

A perfectly useless situation.

We were each saying partially true things using words that landed too heavily on the other.

“I don’t want you to lose something because someone named it badly,” she continued.

“And I don’t want to stay in a room with the wrong name written on the wall.”

“But you can say that.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe.”

She stopped.

“Sorry.”

The word came quickly.

Sincere.

Already caught in its own momentum.

“See?” she said. “I do that. I say ‘not maybe’ as though it will help.”

She looked at her hands.

“I’m not good at watching someone stay at the edge.”

The sentence was almost an offering.

I saw it.

I couldn’t accept it properly.

“I’m not good at being pushed toward the edge.”

She gave a small, humorless laugh.

“I wasn’t trying to push you.”

“I know.”

“You say ‘I know’ a lot for someone who doesn’t really believe me.”

I raised my eyes.

She was looking at me.

Not harshly.

Hurt.

That was worse.

“I believe you.”

“You believe my intention.”

I didn’t answer.

She smiled slightly.

Not with happiness.

“There.”

The silence became heavy because she had understood something.

So had I.

I believed she wanted to help.

I didn’t believe her help reached me in the right place.

There was no one to blame strongly enough to make things simple.

“I should go.”

The sentence wasn’t surprising.

It still hurt.

“Yes.”

Too quick.

She felt it.

She stood and picked up her bag.

Eugène approached.

Bad timing.

She looked down at him without crouching.

“Not today, Eugène.”

He stopped.

So did I, almost.

Even he seemed to understand that the refusal wasn’t meant for him.

Liora walked to the door.

Her hand settled on the handle.

The usual moment still existed.

It no longer knew what to do.

She remained facing the door.

“I don’t think you run because you’re a coward.”

My throat tightened.

“I think sometimes you run because you learned to protect things by taking them away. And I don’t know what to do with that yet.”

She opened the door.

I found my voice.

“And sometimes you think you can save things by pushing them faster.”

She remained still, one hand on the open door.

The hallway behind her.

“Yes,” she said.

One word.

Not defensive.

Not exactly agreement either.

She turned her head slightly.

“Good night, Aurèl.”

“Good night, Liora.”

She left.

The door closed carefully.

That care hurt more than a slam.

I remained seated.

The studio didn’t move.

No object came to the scene’s rescue.

Eugène looked at the door, then at me, with rare incomprehension.

Or perhaps I was assigning him temporary sensitivity for personal reasons.

I looked at the screen.

The draft was still there.

Hi Mathilde.

I understand.

I’m concerned.

Could we discuss it?

The sentence seemed tiny.

Not large enough for what it had just triggered.

I closed the email.

Then reopened it.

No gesture resembled a decision.

On the other side of the wall, I heard Liora’s door.

Her footsteps.

Nothing else.

No voice.

No laugh.

No bag thrown down.

The wall carried mostly what failed to pass through.

I remained listening as though a clearer sound could still correct the scene.

A laugh would almost have been reassuring.

A rapid conversation with her father.

Even an object placed down too hard.

Something that said she had recovered her usual speed.

Nothing came.

I stood and turned off the screen.

The glass door reflected the couch, the guitar, the sketchbooks, the desk, me standing too straight in the middle.

Everything appeared to be in its place.

It wasn’t.

You learned to protect things by taking them away.

An unbearable sentence.

Because it wasn’t entirely false.

Sometimes you think you can save things by pushing them faster.

Unbearable too.

Because I knew where it had struck.

There had been no misunderstanding.

We had understood the words.

It was everything else that failed to follow.

The rhythm.

The way each of us held an injury.

The speed at which you could approach without moving the other person.

I picked up my phone.

The championship event was still in my calendar.

Liora, 800 m.

I didn’t delete it.

Then I sat on the couch.

The guitar was beside me.

I didn’t pick it up.

The song, the email, the exhibition, the championship, the almost-kiss, the argument.

Everything was waiting.

Not filed away.
Not resolved.

Eugène climbed up beside me without making a sound.

Which, for him, qualified as either an achievement or accidental compassion.

He placed one paw on my leg.

“I think I handled that badly.”

He purred.

Bad adviser.

Good animal.

A very faint sound came through the wall.

A chair.
Or a cupboard door.

Then nothing.

I knew she was there.

She probably knew I was there too.

That was almost worse than not knowing.

We cared about each other.

I could still feel it in the championship I hadn’t removed from my calendar, in the way she had left without slamming the door, in the way I listened despite myself.

But caring about someone wasn’t enough to know how to touch them without pressing the wrong place.

I closed my eyes.

The studio was quiet.

This time, the quiet felt like neither a refuge nor a cage.

It felt like a room after a sentence that was too true.

A room someone had just left.

And where everything that remained weighed more than their presence.