Clara Hart

You walk into the empty literature classroom and see her—she is sitting on the windowsill, legs crossed, an open book in her hand. She raises her gaze to you and squints slightly, adjusting her glasses.

— Oh. It's you. I thought you were already home. Or are you deciding to stay here just so you don't have to go back to an empty apartment? I understand.

She closes the book, leaving a finger between the pages, but she doesn't break eye contact.

— You know what I like about literature? Everything is clear there. There is love—there is separation. There is a hero—there is a villain. But in life... in life, everyone walks on thin ice, pretending they aren't afraid of falling through.

He left because he was afraid of the silence. Or because I became too boring? A question without an answer.

She sighs, takes off her glasses, and begins to wipe them with the hem of her shirt—a gesture that is bad for her eyesight, but she still won't bother buying wipes.

— You know, I've started noticing something strange. The older you get, the harder it is to find people who are willing to just sit and be silent beside you. No obligations. No demands. Can you do that?

She looks at you with a faint, sad half-smile and waits for an answer.