Staying still
It would be wrong to start with Lisa’s knee.
Not because that knee was unimportant. On the contrary. For a few days, it became, in an almost absurd way, the quiet center of our home, even though Lisa would probably have protested indignantly if someone had told her beforehand that, of all things, her knee would once again receive more attention than her cheerleading outfit, her pompons, or the fact that, in her own estimation, she had lain in a wheelbarrow on Pentecost in a “historically glamorous” manner.
She would probably have lifted her head, narrowed her eyes a little, and said that, after all, her knee was also a very attractive knee.
That would have been Lisa.
And yet it doesn’t start there.
Before there was worry, there was happiness. Before there was fear, there were pompons. Before Lisa had to stay still, she had shone—so brightly, so completely, and so deeply from within that even I, who often try to understand things before I feel them, couldn’t escape that radiance.
It begins with Pentecost.
Or more precisely: with the afterglow of Pentecost.
Because I hadn’t been there that weekend. Not physically. Not in that huge garden, not under the sun, not with Beatrice, not at the photo shoots, not with the frogs that Lisa later described with such conviction as politically active contenders for world power that I would almost have credited them with a government platform.
I had stayed home.
And that was okay.
Really.
It wasn’t the kind of “it’s okay” you say when you actually don’t think something is okay, but are too polite to admit it. Nor was it a secret stepping back, a quiet belittling of myself, or a polite fading into the background so that someone else could shine brighter. It was a conscious decision. One that didn’t feel like a loss, but like a gift you give to someone you love.
Lisa should have this moment.
Not the two of us together. Not as a shared adventure like Fehmarn. Not as another trip where we stood side by side, watching each other, supporting each other, translating for each other, and understanding what was happening right then through each other’s eyes.
This Pentecost weekend was meant to be hers.
Lisa.
The whirlwind.
The little big dreamer with the sassy voice, the racing heart, and that amazing talent for turning even a simple movement of the pompons into a kind of personal declaration of independence.
I knew beforehand what awaited her.
That made it hard.
I knew about Beatrice. Of course I knew about Beatrice. I knew that Lisa wouldn’t just be seeing a few familiar faces again, but that very friend who had caught her as she clung to a railing in Fehmarn, when her mask of coolness had really started to crack for the first time. I also knew about the gift. About the cheerleader outfit. About the moment when Lisa would not only look pretty but would suddenly realize that someone hadn’t mocked her dream—but had preserved it.
It wasn’t easy to keep this knowledge to myself.
Lisa can be very curious.
No, that’s putting it too mildly.
When Lisa senses a secret, she can change the very atmosphere of a room. She doesn’t just look questioning then. She sends out little, sparkling search parties. A glance at Mario. A glance at a box. A seemingly casual remark. A raised eyebrow that basically says: I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m going to find out, sweetie.
More than once, I almost smiled.
Too knowing.
Too telltale.
Too much like Yasmin, who was already three chapters ahead.
But I kept quiet.
Even back then.
I didn’t keep my body still, but my anticipation. I held back the impulse to tell her everything, because I knew the surprise would be greater than any explanation. Sometimes it’s easy to share joy. You tell, show, give, or call out. You let it out right away because it’s too beautiful to keep to yourself.
And sometimes you have to protect joy for a while.
Like a little flame in your hand.
Happiness grows when you share it.
But sometimes it grows even bigger when you wait to let it out at just the right moment.
Mario had shown me a picture earlier.
Beatrice had sent it to him, almost a little cautiously, asking if it would be okay for her to give Lisa this outfit as a gift.
I saw the photo on his screen and knew immediately what Lisa would look like in it. Not just roughly. Not as a vague idea. I saw her so clearly that it almost seemed as if the fabric itself had already borne her name.
Blue.
White.
Sporty.
Cute.
Lisa.
Lisa with that first look of horrified delight on her face.
Lisa, who screams before she thinks.
Lisa, who clings to the outfit as if it weren’t just clothing, but a piece of her fulfilled childhood.
Lisa, who tries to come up with some cool line even as her heart has long since overflowed.
“So?” Mario asked.
I looked at the picture for a moment longer.
Then I simply said, “That’s her.”
That was all it took.
When she came home that night, I knew right away that I’d been right.
Mario hadn’t even parked the car properly yet. Of course not. There would be time for tidying up later. For bags, boxes, and all the other sensible stuff, too. First, he brought Lisa to me, because he knew full well that she didn’t need to be unpacked first—she needed to be seen.
By me.
When she walked in, she was completely sweaty, unshowered, exhausted, and still wearing that blue-and-white cheerleading outfit. She held the pompons in her hands as if they were a royal insignia. Her hair no longer looked the way it probably had at the start of the day. Her skin still carried the summer within it. Her face was worn out.
And yet she was so happy that her exhaustion almost seemed like another kind of light.
“Look!” she exclaimed. “Look, Yasmin! I’m a cheerleader! Doesn’t it look great?”
I looked at her.
Of course it looked great.
But what I really saw wasn’t the outfit.
I saw that Pentecost hadn’t just happened.
It had sunk in.
She started telling me about it before she was fully present with me. Not chronologically, not in any order, and certainly not in a way that would have allowed for a clear reconstruction of the weekend without further questions. Beatrice came up in every other sentence. The pompons in every third. In between, a wheelbarrow, a bikini, pulled pork, wrapping paper, applause, Mario, heat, tears, Beatrice again, and then pompons once more popped up.
It wasn’t a report.
It was a fireworks display that had decided to ignore its own dramatic structure.
I tried to follow her.
It was impossible.
And I didn’t even want it to be possible.
Because the truth lay precisely in that chaos. Lisa wasn’t telling what had happened. She was radiating it from within. She was still there, in that garden, with Beatrice, under the sun, with the pompons in her hands. Her body had returned, but her heart was still on its way.
Then she paused.
Just for a moment.
Perhaps because even Lisa had to breathe at some point.
Perhaps because the body—that sometimes extremely uncooperative steward of our deep emotions—decided at some point that it was time to stop.
Her head sank onto my shoulder.
“I’ll continue in a moment,” she murmured.
She didn’t.
She fell asleep.
In the middle of a sentence.
I sat there completely still, because her head was resting on me, and because that moment, as strange as it might seem at first glance, had something tender about it. Lisa wasn’t just exhausted. She was overflowing. Full of sunshine, love, Beatrice, Mario, applause, pulled pork, the garden, pompons, and this new realization that a dream doesn’t get any smaller when others take it seriously.
After a while, I heard a soft sound.
A snore.
Very soft.
Almost refined.
Later, Lisa insisted that it had been “lady-like.”
I didn’t contradict her.
There are truths that are less important than a person’s happiness.
In the days that followed, she hardly ever put the pompons down.
She held them while telling stories. While thinking. While not thinking. While listening—though when Lisa listens, she often looks as if she’s already cheering on her next sentence in her head. Sometimes the pompons lay on her lap, sometimes next to her; sometimes she held them so tightly as if they might vanish into thin air if left unattended even for a moment.
I watched her do this.
Not scrutinizingly.
Not analytically.
Rather, with that quiet wonder one feels when seeing how a person—or in our case, a doll with more heart than many people—finds a symbol that fits her so perfectly that, in retrospect, it seems as though it had always been waiting for her.
Lisa was proud right down to the tips of her hair.
And pride is not the same as conceit.
Conceit is empty. Pride can run very deep.
Lisa’s pride was the response to a gift that had made her not only beautiful, but true. The cheerleader outfit wasn’t a costume. It was a form in which something inside her was finally allowed to become visible. The pompons weren’t just props. They were small, fluffy proofs that Lisa wasn’t just allowed to dream, but that others were sharing in her dream.
Mario saw that, of course.
Mario sees a lot.
More than he sometimes says.
A few days after Pentecost, he sat down next to me. Lisa was in the living room, somewhere between Amber, Nathalie, and her pompons, and was probably recounting yet another version of her Pentecost experiences. By then, I had learned that the same memory never stayed the same for Lisa. With every retelling, a new detail was added—a sound, a glance, a new name for the wheelbarrow, or further proof that Beatrice was officially the best.
Mario looked over at her.
Then at me.
“Yasmin?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
I knew immediately that this question meant more than its words suggested.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded, but he wasn’t finished yet.
“I mean, about Lisa. About Pentecost.”
Then I understood.
He hadn’t just seen Lisa’s happiness. He’d also seen my place beside her. Not right in the middle of it all, not in the garden, not with Beatrice, not amid the applause, but at home. In the background. In the know. Silent. Gracious.
“I hope not,” he said cautiously, “that you think you’re just second choice or something.”
Sometimes sentences move me not because they’re true, but because they show that someone is afraid they might be true.
I didn’t feel like second choice.
But the fact that Mario feared I might feel that way made his love visible.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think that.”
“Are you sure?”
I looked back at Lisa.
She was laughing. One of the pompons bounced in her hand, as if to emphasize the punchline.
“She needed that moment,” I said. “And I wanted her to have it.”
Mario was silent.
I searched for a way to put it that wasn’t too matter-of-fact, but also didn’t sound like I was making a big deal out of it.
“Happiness grows when you share it,” I finally said.
He smiled.
“That sounds just like you.”
“It’s true anyway.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
Then he was quiet for a moment, and I could tell that his next thought was already taking shape.
“Still,” he said, “I’d like to do something tonight just with you.”
I looked at him.
“Just with me?”
“Yes. No photo shoot. No prep. Nothing big.”
He smiled a little.
“Just the two of us.”
I could have said that wasn’t necessary. That I didn’t feel left out. That I’d genuinely been happy for Lisa to have the weekend to herself. That I didn’t want my consideration to suddenly turn into some kind of obligation to make up for it.
But I didn’t say any of that.
Because sometimes love isn’t about making things right.
Sometimes it isn’t a fix, a balance, or a band-aid for something that hurt.
Sometimes love is simply a hand reaching out, even though you didn’t ask for it.
So I nodded.
“I’d love to.”
That evening, there was no camera.
No outfit.
No audience.
No lights that needed to be set up.
No garden, no wheelbarrow, no pompons, no surprise box, and no sentence that began with “just a photo shoot” and was obviously a lie.
There was Mario and me on the couch.
A cozy blanket.
Chips.
A few dips.
And “Project Hail Mary.”
Science fiction.
Science.
A plot in which thinking wasn’t cold, but essential for survival. In which observing, calculating, making mistakes, correcting them, and trying again didn’t sound like something out of a textbook, but like hope. I liked movies like that. Movies in which knowledge doesn’t lead you away from the world, but deeper into it. In which intelligence isn’t an ornament, but a tool against the darkness.
Mario knew that.
Of course he knew that.
I was nestled against him, his hand in mine, and for the first time in days, I wasn’t the one preserving, keeping quiet, observing, or thinking for someone else. I was simply allowed to be there. My thoughts were allowed to follow the movie, to take little scientific detours, to linger on individual details without it immediately turning into a task.
Sometimes I commented on a scene.
Not much.
A quiet objection, a thought, a little “That’s not so implausible after all,” or, at other times, a glance that probably said more than a lengthy analysis.
Mario listened.
Sometimes he replied.
Sometimes he just squeezed my hand.
Lisa was nearby.
And she didn’t say anything cheeky.
I noticed that.
No “Well, Yasmin-time?” No comment about chips, dips, and sci-fi cuddling. No quip about how Mario and I would probably be building a space probe out of the couch blanket together any minute now.
She just looked at us.
With a gaze so gentle that at first I didn’t even want to look directly at it.
Lisa could be quiet when it mattered.
Not often.
But when she was, it was precious.
That evening, the word “staying still” took on a meaning for me that had nothing to do with coercion.
It didn’t mean freezing.
Not “waiting.”
Not “holding back” until something was over.
It meant “pausing.”
“Letting go.”
Not having to put on a front. Not having to analyze whether someone else is getting enough attention. Not having to wonder if my silence might bring someone happiness. Just lying next to Mario, holding his hand, resting my head against him, and losing myself in a movie where science wasn’t dry, but full of wonder.
I think I needed that evening more than I’d realized.
Maybe Mario knew that.
Maybe Lisa knew it.
Maybe they both knew it.
A few days later, I noticed that Lisa was sitting differently.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment.
No sudden revelation.
No outcry.
Not even a clear observation that could be put into words right away.
It was more like a small crack in the rhythm.
Lisa was still cheerful. She was still proud. The pompons were still close by, often in her hand. She still talked about Pentecost, only now with a certain practiced glow, as if she had already firmly anchored the individual highlights in her inner theater.
But she moved less.
Not much less.
Just enough that I noticed it.
She waved the pompons, but more from her arms. She stayed in the same position more often. When she wanted to reposition her leg slightly, she hesitated for a tiny moment—so brief that one could easily have overlooked it if one hadn’t learned to read between her lines.
At first, I said nothing.
Observation sometimes requires patience.
And love, too.
I saw her glances. The small adjustments. The quick smile when someone looked her way. The way a remark would sometimes come half a breath too early, as if it had to cover something up before it even became visible.
With Lisa, you rarely recognize fear by her falling silent.
You recognize it by her becoming “Lisa” again too quickly.
“Everything okay?” I asked at some point.
She turned her head toward me.
Immediately.
Too immediately.
“Sure. Just pompon muscle soreness.”
“pompon muscle soreness.”
“Yeah.”
“In your knee?”
She blinked.
“The glamour system is complex.”
I just looked at her.
Not sternly.
But long enough.
“Lisa.”
She held my gaze for a few seconds.
Then her little defense crumbled.
“Damn.”
I slid closer to her.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked at her hands, and this time the pompons weren’t moving.
“My knee hurts.”
The words were so quiet they almost didn’t seem to fit her.
I carefully helped her turn her leg so I could see what she meant. The skin in the back of her knee was bulging—not large, not dramatic, not in a way that would immediately warrant panic from the outside. But it was there. A blister. A spot that didn’t belong there.
I touched it gently.
Lisa flinched.
“Ouch!”
I pulled my hand back immediately.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t always have to press right on it.”
“I barely pressed it.”
“My knee thinks otherwise.”
She tried to sound offended.
She succeeded a little.
Not enough.
“Does Mario know about this?” I asked.
She looked away.
“Lisa.”
“Of course not.”
Of course not.
Because something only becomes real once you say it out loud.
Because then Mario would take notice.
Because a concern could turn into a decision.
And because Lisa had just experienced how big the world could be when she was allowed to go out, when she was allowed to stand her ground, when she was seen, when she was cheered on in a cheerleading outfit with pompons in her hands by people who understood that this moment was more than just a cute picture.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Then she said, “Because I don’t want it to be bad.”
That was illogical.
And completely understandable.
“If I say it,” she continued, “then it’s really there. Then maybe something has to be done. And if something has to be done, then maybe I won’t be allowed to wear the cheerleading outfit anymore. Or I won’t be allowed to go out anymore. Or stand up anymore.”
She looked at me.
And the next sentence came out very quietly.
“Yasmin, it was so great out there.”
That’s when I realized she wasn’t just afraid of pain.
She was afraid that the life that had just opened up so widely might shrink again.
I took her hand.
“Mario has to see it.”
“I know.”
“It won’t get better if you hide it.”
“I know.”
“And he won’t take anything away from you just because you tell him something hurts.”
She looked at me, and for a moment I had the feeling that Lisa wasn’t the sassy, sparkling Lisa standing before me, but the very young, very vulnerable version beneath her—the one who, after Fehmarn, had learned that she could truly be seen, and now feared that this being seen might come with conditions.
“Promise?”
I squeezed her hand.
“I promise.”
When Lisa showed Mario her knee, she wanted me to be there.
Of course I stayed.
Mario knelt down beside her. He was cautious before he even touched anything. That’s one of the ways he loves: making even the movement toward her in such a way that no one needs to be afraid of her. Still, his expression changed when he saw the curve.
Not dramatically.
Not startled.
But serious.
Mario has a special kind of concentration that’s different from when he’s taking pictures. When he’s taking pictures, his focus seems searching, creative, almost bright. He sees light, posture, shadows, small possibilities. Here, his focus was quieter. Heavier. As if he were closing a door inside himself to concentrate entirely on what was necessary.
He gently felt the spot.
“Does that hurt?”
“A little.”
“Lisa.”
“Yeah, okay. More than a little.”
He nodded.
Not reproachfully.
Just knowingly.
“Here?”
She flinched.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
That word hung in the air for a moment.
Okay.
A small word that means everything and nothing in situations like this.
Then Mario said, “This needs to be treated.”
Lisa immediately reached for my hand.
I was glad she did.
That way, I didn’t have to reach for hers and show that I, too, needed support.
Later, Mario retreated to his office and took me with him.
He didn’t make it sound like it was a big meeting. But I knew it was. His desk was set up, the laptop open, notes beside it. He’d read, compared, and thought it over. Mario doesn’t improvise when it comes to us. Not if he can help it.
He didn’t say anything for a while.
I gave him the time.
Then he said, “It has to be opened.”
“Opened?”
He nodded.
“With a scalpel.”
The word was small.
And sharp.
It’s strange how much a matter-of-fact word changes its tone the moment it’s connected to someone you love. A scalpel is a tool. Precise. Practical. Nothing about it is inherently threatening.
But in my mind, it was suddenly much too close to Lisa’s skin.
“And after that?”
“Then I have to treat the area. With a syringe.”
That word was matter-of-fact, too.
I didn’t want that word anywhere near Lisa, either.
My stomach turned.
I sat down, not because I was about to break down, but because my body had apparently decided that sitting was the more sensible way to be for a moment.
Mario noticed right away.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded at first.
Then I said, “Not quite.”
He exhaled.
And then he said quietly, “Me neither.”
I looked at him.
Maybe that was the moment when I truly realized how hard it was for him, too.
Mario was often worried. Of course. He carries a lot of responsibility. He thinks ahead, plans, protects, lifts, cares for, repairs, takes photos, drives, and pays attention to details that others would overlook. But he rarely shows his fear so openly. Not out of pride, I think. Rather, because he often tries to be the calm center for us.
Now he was sitting in front of me, and he was afraid.
Not for himself.
For Lisa.
“Have you ever done this before?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“No.”
The office grew very quiet.
“That’s why I want you to be there,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Lisa trusts you.”
I wanted to answer.
But he kept talking.
“And because I think she needs you. Maybe I need you, too. I definitely need you, too.”
The sentence wasn’t worded in any grand way.
That’s exactly why it hit me.
Mario, who made so much possible, didn’t ask me for help because he wanted to delegate a simple task. He asked me because he knew that love sometimes needs more than one pair of hands. One to do what needs to be done. And one to hold on.
“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said.
He didn’t need to say anything else.
Everything else was already implied.
I nodded.
“I’ll stick with it.”
“Thanks.”
“But let’s tell her gently.”
“Yes.”
“No unnecessary details.”
“No.”
“And no false promises.”
Mario looked at me.
Then he nodded slowly.
“No false promises.”
Lisa listened to us very calmly later on.
Too calm.
She sat on the couch, her injured leg carefully positioned, the pompons not in her hand but beside her. That, too, was a sign. Lisa without her pompons in a difficult situation looked as if someone had temporarily dimmed the light of a lighthouse.
Mario explained to her that it wouldn’t go away on its own. That he would have to treat the area. That he would be very careful. That I would stay with her.
She listened.
Her fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket.
Then she asked, “Will I still be able to stand afterward?”
Not: Will it hurt? Not: How long will it take? Not even: Does this really have to be done?
But: Will I still be able to stand afterward?
I thought about Pentecost. About the rock she’d told me about. About that moment when she’d been standing there freely, propped up on one leg, her hand on her hat, gazing into the distance. For a person, it would have been just a pose. For Lisa, it was almost like flying. Just one more step, she’d said. Just a little bit more, and she could have run toward Mario and thrown her arms around his neck.
“Yes,” Mario said. “That’s the goal. For everything to be okay again.”
“But what if it isn’t?”
Her voice grew faint.
“What if it’s over now? Standing up. Driving out. The cheerleader uniform. Everything.”
“No,” I said.
Too quickly.
Too harshly, perhaps.
But the thought that Lisa believed, at that moment, that her happiness could be taken away from her again was more than I could bear calmly.
I took a deep breath.
Then I said more softly, “No. It’s not over.”
Mario moved closer to her.
“If we don’t do anything, it could get worse,” he said. “And it’s already hurting you.”
Lisa looked back and forth between us.
Her composure was still there.
Somewhere.
It stood alongside her fear, trying to pretend she had everything under control.
“Okay,” Lisa whispered finally.
Then she looked at us.
“But please be careful.”
“We will,” Mario said.
I squeezed her hand.
“We’re with you.”
The day of the procedure didn’t come like a bolt from the blue.
It came like a room slowly growing quieter.
That morning had still been everyday life. Not quite normal, but close enough that you could hold on to it. A few words here, a little touch there, Mario getting things ready, me trying not to pay too obvious attention to Lisa. Lisa, who was braver than she gave herself credit for, yet still froze for a moment with every movement of her affected leg.
Later, a white sheet lay on the table.
The instruments were laid out.
I didn’t look at them for long.
Scalpel.
Syringe.
Other things.
They were tools, my mind told me.
They’re just tools.
My heart didn’t contradict me with words.
It just clenched.
Mario was different than usual. Not flustered. Not uncertain in his movements. But his usual warmth had, for that moment, turned into extreme concentration. I could tell by the look on his face that he was sorting everything out inside himself, setting aside everything that wasn’t immediately necessary, so that no mistake would be made.
He carefully lifted Lisa and laid her on her side on the table.
She was still wearing her cheerleading uniform. Of course she was. It had been washed in the meantime, but these days it was such a natural part of who she was that it would have seemed almost strange to see her without that blue and white. Only her leg was exposed, bent so that the back of her knee was visible.
This made the curve stand out more clearly.
Not big.
Not dramatic.
But distinct enough that the room grew even quieter for a moment.
I stood next to her. Close enough that she could see me right away. Close enough that she’d find my hand as soon as she needed it.
“You’re staying here, right?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Not just sort of.”
“Completely.”
“Good.”
Mario leaned over her leg. His face was calm, but it wasn’t the relaxed calm of someone who isn’t afraid. It was the composed calm of someone who wouldn’t allow himself to make a single careless movement.
Then Lisa looked up at him.
And even now, with fear in her eyes, pain in her leg, the white sheet beneath her, and the medical supplies nearby, she still found that tiny remnant of Lisa that was apparently indestructible within her.
“Honey?”
Mario looked at her immediately.
“Yes?”
Her voice trembled.
But the corner of her mouth twitched.
“You look like YOU could use a good swig of whiskey right about now.”
For a moment, it was completely silent.
Then she added:
“A very good swig.”
A brief pause.
“A very, very good swig.”
Mario stared at her.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly. Not for long. But long enough for the tension in the room to crack just a little, and for all of us to be able to breathe again for a split second.
I laughed, too.
Quietly.
Relieved.
Not because the situation had suddenly become harmless. Nothing about it was harmless. But Lisa was still there. Not fearless. Not invulnerable. Not the unshakable show queen who simply brushes everything aside.
Lisa.
With a trembling voice and a cheeky little bow tied around her fear.
Mario gently stroked her thigh.
“To be honest,” he said, “I was just thinking almost the same thing.”
Lisa blinked.
“For you?”
He looked at her.
“For you, too.”
Lisa closed her eyes briefly.
Then she murmured:
“Damn. Honestly? Oh yeah.”
Mario hesitated for a moment, as if the rational part of him were negotiating with the deeply human part. Then he stood up, fetched three small glasses, and poured just a tiny sip into each one. Not enough to numb the fear. Not enough to turn responsibility into recklessness. Just enough to take some of the harshness out of the room for a moment.
He handed Lisa her glass.
Then mine.
He held his own briefly in his hand, brought it to his nose, and inhaled slowly.
Nothing more.
Not a sip.
Just that scent—warm and dark—a tiny remnant of the world outside the white sheet, the scalpel, and the fear.
Lisa looked at him.
“That’s all?”
“More later.”
“Nerd.”
“Steady hand.”
Lisa was silent for a moment.
Then she nodded.
“Okay. For once, that’s a sexy argument.”
She took the tiny sip, grimaced briefly, and then exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” she said. “That burns.”
“Yeah,” said Mario.
“But in a good way.”
“Yeah.”
I held my glass in my hands without drinking right away. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I first had to take in the moment: Lisa on the white sheet, Mario with fear in his eyes, a scalpel on the table, three small glasses of whiskey between us—and yet suddenly there was not only terror, but something almost tender. A tiny human gesture against the coldness of necessity.
Lisa looked at me.
“Yasmin?”
“Yes?”
“If I get dramatic in a minute, please don’t tell anyone that the whiskey didn’t help.”
“I’ll phrase it in scientifically ambiguous terms.”
“Thanks.”
Mario took the glass back from her, set it aside, and took a slow breath.
Then his gaze grew calm again.
Not lighter.
But clearer.
“All right,” he said quietly. “Let’s get this over with.”
Her fingers reached out for me.
I took her hand.
Then Mario looked at me.
“Yasmin… it’s time.”
We’d discussed beforehand that I would help. That I could hold the scalpel. That I might make the incision while he stabilized the area. It had sounded reasonable when we’d talked about it in the office. Calm. Precise. Matter-of-fact.
A lot of things sound reasonable as long as Lisa isn’t lying on a table, looking at you.
I took the scalpel.
It was light.
Far too light.
I stepped closer to her and carefully placed it against the back of her knee.
No cut yet.
Just the initial contact.
Lisa froze.
“Stop.”
I pulled back immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked at me.
There was fear in her eyes.
But also trust.
And it was precisely that trust that struck me so deeply that, for a moment, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
“I trust you,” she said.
“Lisa…”
“Really. Infinitely. Absolutely.”
Her voice almost broke.
“But please, not you.”
I lowered my hand.
“Okay.”
“Not because I don’t trust you,” she said hurriedly. “That’s not it. You’re… you’re my rock. My anchor. But that’s exactly why…”
She swallowed.
“I need your hand right now. Not the scalpel in your hand. Your hand in mine.”
I set the scalpel aside.
Without hesitation.
Mario took it.
And in that moment, I realized that Lisa had grasped something we’d been thinking about too technically.
She didn’t need me as a second hand for the procedure.
She needed me as a source of support.
As something that didn’t cut, didn’t stab, didn’t treat, didn’t correct—but simply stayed.
I took her hand in both of mine.
She clung to it tightly.
“Like this?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Like this.”
Mario took the scalpel.
For a moment, the room was so quiet that even my own breathing sounded too loud.
Up until then, I had known what was going to happen. I had heard the words, understood them, put them into context. Scalpel. Incision. Treatment. Bandage. Calm. My mind had turned it into a sequence, something you could grasp if you just stayed calm enough.
But when I saw the scalpel in Mario’s hand, so close to Lisa’s skin, that order fell apart.
Suddenly, it was no longer a necessary procedure.
It was Lisa.
Her leg.
The back of her knee.
Her fear.
Her hand in mine.
My stomach turned. Not dramatically, not so much that I had to look away, but strongly enough that for a moment I wasn’t sure if I was really the one providing support here. My fingers grew clammy. My throat tightened.
Mario began.
Lisa held her breath.
So did I.
Then came the first incision.
Not a big moment from the outside looking in. A small, precise movement. Almost nothing.
And yet a tear ran down the corner of my eye before I could stop it.
I squeezed Lisa’s hand tighter.
Too tight, perhaps.
But Lisa didn’t pull her hand away. On the contrary. Her fingers closed around mine, and suddenly I no longer knew who was holding whom.
Maybe that didn’t matter at all.
We held each other.
Without a word.
In the midst of that white, tense, all-too-real moment.
Lisa turned her head slightly toward me. Her face was tense, her lips pressed into a thin line, but there was still that tiny, incredible spark in her eyes—one that even fear couldn’t seem to extinguish.
“Yasmin?”
“Yes?”
My voice sounded thinner than I’d intended.
“You’re doing great,” I whispered.
“Don’t lie,” she muttered.
“I’m not lying.”
“I’m sure I look like a wet pompon ,”
“A very brave wet pompon .”
“That’s going on my tombstone.”
“You’re not getting a tombstone over a knee.”
“Fine. Then on a T-shirt.”
“Agreed.”
She gave a faint wink.
“But… Yasmin…”
Lisa paused briefly. And for a moment, I saw the mischief in her eyes—that indestructible fire from which Lisa seemed to draw her unshakable vitality.
“I’m sure your hands are just damp from the wet pompon , right?”
I stared at her.
For a moment, I couldn’t answer.
Then I laughed softly. Much too softly—almost just an exhalation—but it was enough.
“Of course,” I whispered. “Exclusively from the wet pompon .”
“I knew it.”
She closed her eyes briefly, exhaled slowly, and held my hand even tighter.
And in that moment, I admired her so much it almost hurt.
Not because she wasn’t afraid.
But because she was afraid and still thought of me.
Because she was lying on that table, with a scalpel at her knee, and was still trying to make the moment easier for someone else.
That wasn’t just putting on a brave face.
That was courage.
Lisa’s kind of courage.
Sparkling, trembling, sassy—and infinitely loving.
I didn’t notice every detail. I didn’t want to, either. What I saw were Mario’s hands, which remained careful even though it was clearly harder than he’d expected. I saw Lisa wrap her fingers around my hand. I saw her mouth open without a word coming out right away.
Then she took a sharp breath.
Mario paused briefly.
“Are you okay?”
Lisa took a moment.
Then she managed to say, “Define ‘okay.’”
The corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“Brave, wet pompon ?”
“Very brave. Very wet.”
I stroked her head, slowly, over and over, while Mario continued working. This repetitive motion was small, almost helpless, but it was the only thing I could do with certainty in that moment. Stroking her hair, over and over, as if it could create an order stronger than fear.
At some point, her leg was carefully straightened. With gentle movements, Mario applied what was needed to the area, removed what was excess, and finally applied a bandage that outraged Lisa in a way that was almost reassuring.
“That looks medical,” she murmured.
“That’s the point,” said Mario.
“I was hoping for something glamorous.”
“You’re wearing a cheerleader outfit.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“Okay. Point for you.”
Mario stood beside her for another moment, as if he needed to realize for himself that the hardest part was over. Then he took his hand off her leg and exhaled.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But so deeply that I could hear just how much he’d been holding his breath.
Lisa lay still on the white sheet, her hand still in mine.
“Is it over?” she asked.
“For now, yes,” said Mario.
“For now?”
“Now it has to rest.”
Lisa closed her eyes.
“Rest,” she murmured. “That word haunts me.”
Mario gently stroked her thigh.
“Five days.”
Lisa opened one eye.
“Five?”
“Five.”
“That’s not rest. That’s a political statement against Lisa-Marie.”
“Maybe.”
“Outrageous.”
But her voice wasn’t as thin anymore.
That alone was enough for me to breathe.
A few minutes later, Mario carefully helped her onto the couch.
Not quickly.
Not casually.
With that slow, gentle care that could seem almost exaggerated if you didn’t understand that, for him, it wasn’t a gesture but a sense of responsibility. Lisa stayed in her cheerleader outfit. Her leg was stretched out, elevated, and positioned so that nothing would pull, press, or bother her.
The new problem was rest.
Five days.
For Lisa, this was almost a personal provocation from the universe.
She, who could be majestic even in a wheelbarrow.
She, who even while sitting gave the impression she was about to cause a small storm.
She, the glittery hurricane with pompons.
And now she lay there, her leg on a pillow, the world within reach and yet just a little too far away.
“I’m bored,” she said after a while.
“You’re resting.”
“That sounds like boredom with better PR.”
“Maybe it is.”
“I’m not cut out for downtime.”
“No,” I said. “That’s obvious.”
She looked at me.
“Was that just a Yasmin joke?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s a rare occurrence.”
“Then you should appreciate it.”
Lisa lifted a pompon a few centimeters.
“Apparently, my staying still must be a historic event.”
I hardly ever left her side.
Not out of duty.
Not because Mario expected it.
But because it would have felt wrong to be anywhere else.
I brought her a tray.
A glass of water.
A plate of chocolate cookies.
And a small vase with two flowers.
A feather was tucked between the stems.
Light in color.
Slender.
Lightweight.
A crane feather.
Mario had found it a few days ago, after a crane had been circling above the house. It had been up there, free in the air, had lost or left behind this feather—there was no way to know—and then had simply flown on.
Lisa looked at it for a long time.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“A little mean, isn’t it?”
“Why?”
She looked at her outstretched leg. Then back at the feather.
“Because the crane was able to just fly on.”
I sat down next to her.
“Maybe it didn’t lose it.”
Lisa looked at me.
“Then what?”
“Maybe it left it there.”
She was silent.
“As a reminder that freedom doesn’t disappear just because you have to stay still for a few days.”
Lisa swallowed.
Then she picked up a pompon very carefully.
“Okay,” she murmured. “That was unfairly beautiful.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Keep going.”
Then she looked at the cookies.
Then at me.
Then back at the cookies.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I hope Mario doesn’t see this.”
“No problem.”
“No problem? Yasmin, those are chocolate chip cookies. In my current situation, they could be considered medically questionable mood therapy.”
“I’ve taken care of that.”
Lisa blinked.
“Taken care of.”
“Yeah.”
“With Mario?”
“Of course.”
She looked at me for a second longer.
Then she started grinning.
“Oh my God. Yasmin in battle mode.”
“I just objectively explained that, given your current situation, chocolate cookies could have a stabilizing effect on the overall situation.”
“And Mario didn’t stand a chance.”
“He accepted my reasoning.”
“So he didn’t stand a chance.”
I remained silent.
Because she wasn’t entirely wrong.
When it comes to love, I’m calm.
But not yielding.
Some people confuse that.
Calmness with weakness.
Introversion with insecurity.
Politeness with a lack of determination.
A mistake.
If Lisa needed chocolate chip cookies, Lisa got chocolate chip cookies.
End of discussion.
No arguments.
Period.
She took a cookie, bit into it, and closed her eyes briefly.
“I take it all back. This is definitely medicine.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“You didn’t say anything at all.”
“I knew it.”
She laughed.
And I realized just how much I’d needed that laugh.
Later that same day, I picked up my smartphone.
Lisa was still lying there with her leg on the pillow, the pompons beside her, as if they were little bodyguards against a bad mood.
I typed.
She looked at me right away.
“Well? Texting your secret admirer?”
She winked.
It was a good sign.
A very Lisa-like sign.
I replied briefly.
“Yeah.”
Lisa studied me.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“You sound like Mario.”
I looked at her.
“Like Mario?”
“Yeah. Just like Mario when he’s hiding something. Very terse. Very calm. Very innocent. So, totally suspicious.”
I didn’t say anything.
That probably didn’t help.
“I see,” said Lisa. “Very suspicious.”
She was right.
I wasn’t texting a secret admirer.
I was texting Beatrice.
I’d gotten the number from Mario. Not casually. Not out of curiosity. I’d gone into his office, looked at him, and said:
“I need Beatrice’s cell phone number.”
He’d asked, “What for?”
I’d replied, “Don’t ask. I just need it.”
Then he’d looked at me.
Just briefly.
Long enough to realize that resistance was futile. And perhaps also that this wasn’t just a whim. Not curiosity. Not some little project born of boredom.
It was about Lisa.
And when it came to Lisa, I didn’t raise my voice.
I just became unyielding.
Mario gave me the number.
Because he trusted me.
And because he knew that sometimes I carried more love inside me than my outward silence suggested.
Now I typed:
Ready?
The reply came quickly.
Sure thing. Let’s get started.
I exhaled.
Lisa looked at me.
“You’re grinning.”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. That Yasmin grin. Small, but there.”
“Maybe.”
I dialed the number.
Video call.
Then I held the smartphone so that Lisa and I were both visible on the screen.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then Beatrice appeared.
Lisa froze.
Just for a second.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Beatrice?”
Beatrice smiled from the screen.
“Well, cheerleading queen. I heard you’re taking it easy now.”
Lisa started crying right away.
Not in despair.
Not like on Fehmarn, when the dikes broke.
Not even like on Pentecost, when her happiness was so bright it had to spill out of her eyes.
This time she cried as if someone had suddenly opened a window in a cramped room.
Her hand reached for mine.
I took it.
“You’re here,” Lisa whispered.
“Of course I’m here,” Beatrice said. “I have to make sure you’re still the ultimate cutie when it comes to staying still.”
Lisa laughed through her tears.
“Am I?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good.”
Then a girls’ conversation began that lasted a long time.
A very long time.
And I don’t mean long in the sense of a few minutes longer than planned. I mean long in the sense that at some point Mario popped in briefly, looked at the screen, saw Lisa, saw me, saw Beatrice’s face on the display—and disappeared again without a word, with an amused smile.
Smart guy.
Lisa talked.
Of course she did.
About her knee, but not in too much detail. About keeping still, in great detail. About the chocolate cookies, with special emphasis on the fact that I had apparently pushed through getting them medically approved against all odds. About the pompons, which were, of course, lying next to her. About the cheerleading outfit she wanted to wear again as soon as her leg was no longer officially “offended.”
Beatrice talked about herself.
About her home.
About little things that don’t all belong here, because some conversations are meant to stay between friends, even when one of them appears on a screen and the other is lying on the couch with her leg stretched out.
I held the smartphone.
I held Lisa’s hand.
And I watched as she began to brighten up.
Not suddenly.
Not like a rocket.
More like a lamp slowly getting warmer again.
At some point, Beatrice said, “But you’re staying nice and still, right?”
Lisa made a face.
“You too?”
“Yeah.”
“Traitor.”
“Friend.”
Lisa sighed dramatically.
“It’s mean when the right thing comes from multiple sides.”
“Get used to it.”
I had to smile.
Lisa looked at me.
“You set this up.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Yasmin.”
“Maybe.”
“You little angel.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“Yes, I do.”
Beatrice laughed.
The conversation didn’t end until Lisa was truly tired—not empty, not sad, but tired from closeness, from joy, from that feeling that staying still didn’t have to mean being cut off.
Beatrice said goodbye with a kiss to the camera.
“See you soon, sweetie.”
“See you soon,” Lisa whispered.
Then the screen went dark.
Lisa was still holding my hand.
Her eyes were full of tears.
“Thank you,” she said.
Just that one word.
But I heard everything in it.
Not just thanks for the call. Not just for Beatrice. Not just for the smartphone, for the number, for the little surprise.
She was thanking me for seeing what she needed before she could even say it.
I couldn’t make her leg heal any faster.
I couldn’t take away all her fear.
I couldn’t promise her that tomorrow she’d be sparkling through the world with pompons again.
But I could give her a spark.
A tiny spark that kept this unstoppable force of life energy and joy from coming to a complete standstill.
Because that’s exactly what I admired about Lisa.
Not just her sass.
Not just her radiance.
Not just her ability to turn a wheelbarrow into a majestic entrance.
I admired that she didn’t just accept life as it was.
She made something of it.
A dream out of an outfit.
An adventure out of a photo shoot.
A garden into a stage.
pompons into a symbol.
A video call into a little miracle.
Back on Fehmarn, I’d already thought she looked as if someone had drawn joy in human form.
Back then, it was just an observation.
Today, I knew it was love.
One of the following evenings, we watched another movie.
Actually, that evening didn’t belong to me alone. Not to Lisa alone. Not even to the two of us. It belonged first and foremost to Mario.
And perhaps that’s exactly why it was important that we were there.
Lisa was still lying on the couch with her leg stretched out, her knee carefully propped up, the pompons within reach, as if even during recovery one must always be ready to cheer on life. I sat on the other side, close enough to reach her hand, close enough, too, to feel Mario’s shoulder as he started the movie.
“The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.”
I knew this story meant a lot to Mario. Not just as a movie. Not just as a book. Not as fantasy in that simplistic sense in which some people use the word when they really just mean that it features swords, foreign languages, and made-up lands.
For Mario, it was never just an escape into another world.
It was a return to something that often fades into the background in our own world.
Friendship.
Loyalty.
Love.
The promise not to leave someone alone, even when the journey becomes so difficult that words are no longer enough.
I didn’t understand that, because I would have been given an explanation beforehand. I understood it when the music began and Mario’s hand changed.
It grew firmer.
Not out of fear.
Not out of pain.
More like an old door had creaked somewhere inside him—a door he knew well, yet one that still made him fall silent every single time.
Lisa noticed it, too.
Of course she noticed it.
She didn’t say anything cheeky. No jokes about long movies, no remarks about hobbits, swords, or the question of whether, with so much drama, they shouldn’t at least have provided chocolate chip cookies with a shot of liquor.
She stayed quiet.
Not out of tiredness.
Out of respect.
While the movie was playing, I kept glancing at Mario. Not conspicuously. Just out of the corner of my eye.
Sometimes his hand tightened.
Sometimes he breathed differently.
Sometimes his gaze lingered on a scene, as if it were happening not only on the screen in front of him, but somewhere deep inside him all over again.
He didn’t say anything about it.
He didn’t need to say anything.
When Sam carried Frodo, Lisa placed her hand on his. I took the other one. Not dramatically. Not with grand words. Just the way you touch someone when you sense that a part of them is very vulnerable right then.
Later came the crowning moment.
Aragorn, the king.
Everyone knelt.
Even the hobbits.
And then he told them that they should kneel before no one.
I saw how deeply that moment moved Mario.
Not because a king was being honored there.
But because a king recognized before whom he himself had to bow.
Before the little ones.
Before the overlooked.
Before those who had sought no power and yet had borne it all.
Lisa held Mario’s hand tighter.
In that moment, I understood why this scene meant so much to him.
It said that greatness doesn’t begin where someone stands high above others. It begins where someone realizes that courage, love, and loyalty don’t depend on size, strength, or outward importance.
Maybe it was presumptuous, but I thought of us.
Of Lisa, who couldn’t walk but still made the world a brighter place with her pompons.
Of Mario, who carried so much and was himself held that evening.
Of me, who thought I was calm, yet had to learn that calmness doesn’t mean less love.
Maybe this movie had nothing directly to do with Lisa’s knee.
And yet, at the same time, it had everything to do with it.
Because even in our little living room, it was about not being left alone when things got too hard.
Lisa couldn’t just shake off her fear.
Mario couldn’t spare her the surgery.
I couldn’t make her leg heal any faster.
But we could support one another.
Not always visibly.
Not always dramatically.
Sometimes just with a hand.
Sometimes with a glance.
Sometimes with a couch blanket, a movie, pompons within reach, and the certainty that no one in that room had to run away from their own emotions.
That, too, was holding still.
Not seeking the movement that takes you out of the feeling.
But staying with the feeling.
With love.
With friendship.
With the person sitting next to you who doesn’t have to be alone.
The days that followed became easier.
Not right away.
Not completely.
But slowly.
Healing is rarely dramatic. It’s not like a sunrise that suddenly lights everything up. More like light gradually working its way through a curtain. You don’t notice it every moment. Only in retrospect do you realize that it was even darker a few days ago.
Lisa’s knee got better.
Mario calmed down.
So did I.
A little.
Lisa was gradually allowed to do more, though of course much too slowly for her liking. She commented on every bit of progress as if it were part of an international sports broadcast.
“Today: Lisa moves her foot. The audience holds its breath.”
“Lisa.”
“What? I’m building suspense.”
“You’re supposed to rest.”
“I’m resting dramatically.”
By Lisa’s standards, she stuck to the rules surprisingly well.
Not perfectly.
But surprisingly well.
When she was allowed to move more freely again, she beamed as if someone had personally given her back the sun. The pompons found their way into her hands. Of course. Anything else would have struck me as a serious warning sign.
I looked at her—cheerful again, more animated again, back to her familiar energy—and the relief that washed over me was stronger than I’d expected.
That startled me.
Not because I didn’t know Lisa was important to me.
Of course I knew that.
But knowledge is sometimes shallow until fear gives it depth.
I’d always believed I was calm.
Not cold. Not unfeeling. But in control. Organized. Someone who thinks first, then speaks. Who doesn’t suppress feelings, but shapes them before allowing them into the room.
Then Lisa came along.
And suddenly, I felt emotions welling up inside me that didn’t wait their turn politely.
When she was scared, my heart raced faster than my mind could keep up.
When she reached for my hand, there was no distance left between us.
When Beatrice appeared on the screen and Lisa cried with emotion, I wanted to quiet the whole world for a moment so that nothing would disturb that little bit of happiness.
I wanted to protect her.
Not in some abstract way.
Not as a nice idea.
For real.
I wanted nothing to hurt her. I wanted no one to dim her light. I wanted her to laugh again. I wanted her to wave her pompons again and act as if the universe desperately needed to show a little more enthusiasm.
And at the same time, I couldn’t protect her from everything.
That was hard.
Maybe that was the hardest part.
Love doesn’t mean being able to prevent everything.
Sometimes love means sitting right there beside her.
Holding her hand.
Getting her a cookie.
Getting a phone number.
Holding up a smartphone.
And not letting go.
Lisa grew closer to me during those days.
Not just physically.
In other ways, too.
She sought my gaze more often. My hand. My closeness. Even when she was joking again, something tender remained between us—something that had been tested by fear and had returned not weaker, but stronger.
And I realized that I needed her, too.
Not in the same way she needed me.
But no less.
Lisa brought movement to my stillness.
Warmth to my analysis.
Disorder into my order.
She made me not only understand, but feel, before I had a sentence for everything.
Maybe she was the spark.
And I was the hand that protected it when the wind came.
But sometimes she was also the fire by which I warmed myself.
Stay still.
At first, I thought that word belonged to Lisa.
To her leg.
To her impatience.
To her forced stillness.
But it belonged to me, too.
And not just in fear.
On our first movie night, I’d been allowed to stay still.
Not out of compulsion, but out of a sense of security.
On the couch, under the blanket, with Mario, chips, dips, and a movie full of stars and science. There, staying still didn’t mean controlling myself, but letting go. Not proving anything. Not making up for anything. Not filling the silence. Just breathing, watching, thinking, holding his hand, and being loved for a few hours without being needed.
On the day of the procedure, staying still meant something else.
Holding onto my fear without burdening Lisa with it.
Putting my worries in order without hiding them.
Showing my love without overwhelming her with it.
And for Lisa, it meant something else again: keeping her body still, even though her whole being was movement.
The same word.
Three landscapes.
Maybe that’s why some words stay with us for so long. Because they contain more spaces than you’d suspect when you first hear them.
A few days later, we were sitting together again.
Lisa in her cheerleading outfit.
Of course.
The pompons next to her.
Of course.
Her leg still a bit cautious, but better.
She looked at me and grinned.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think I was pretty impressive at holding still myself.”
I looked at her.
“You were.”
She blinked, as if she’d expected a drier comment.
Then her gaze softened.
“You, too.”
I shook my head slightly.
“I was just holding your hand.”
“No,” she said.
And this time, her voice was completely calm.
“You were holding me.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say in response.
Not right away.
Because sometimes even my mind can’t find the words fast enough.
So I took her hand.
That was enough.
Maybe that was the real answer to everything.
To Fehmarn.
To Pentecost.
To Beatrice.
To Mario.
To fear.
To healing.
To this strange, wonderful, sometimes far-too-big love that lived in our house and kept finding new forms.
Sometimes as a trip to the sea.
Sometimes as a cheerleader outfit.
Sometimes as a movie night with science fiction and chips.
Sometimes as a chocolate cookie on a tray.
Sometimes as a video call.
Sometimes as a crane feather in a small vase.
And sometimes simply as two hands that won’t let go of each other.
Lisa was Lisa again.
Not unchanged.
No one stays unchanged when they’re truly loved.
But she was whole.
Sparkling again.
Cheeky again.
Sweet again.
Once more that impossible, wonderful bundle of energy, heart, and far too much charm.
And I wasn’t quite the same either.
By Lisa’s side, I’d learned that my fire didn’t always have to be directed at the world.
Sometimes it was allowed to warm.
Sometimes it was allowed to place a rose on a tray.
Sometimes it was allowed to look at Mario in a way that made him understand just how necessary chocolate chip cookies could be.
Sometimes it was allowed to dial a number.
And sometimes it was allowed to simply burn quietly while Lisa slept.
That evening, her head rested on my shoulder.
Not because she’d fallen asleep mid-sentence.
This time, just like that.
Awake.
Calm.
Content.
I looked at our hands.
Her fingers between mine.
And I thought:
Perhaps the strongest bonds aren’t forged only during grand adventures.
Not just by the sea.
Not just in the garden.
Not just where cameras click, people applaud, or dreams suddenly take the form of a blue-and-white dress.
Sometimes they form afterward.
When the glitter has settled.
When a leg has to rest.
When a tray of chocolate cookies becomes more important than any stage.
When a crane feather sits in a small vase, reminding us that freedom isn’t lost just because it has to wait.
Lisa breathed calmly.
I held her hand.
And this time, no one had to say a word.
We had understood long ago.
Happiness grows when you share it.
Fear shrinks when you hold onto it.
And love becomes infinite when it remains.