Candles

Vea sank into her couch. After days of rushing from A to B, almost falling down the stairs, and getting a headache from the stuffy subway air, stepping into her apartment instantly slowed her down. No matter what happened that day, this was her zone of tranquility. Nevertheless, hunger eventually made its presence known, and she dragged herself into the kitchen.

While she chopped the ingredients standing at the kitchen counter, without a recipe, without a plan, thoughts kept crossing her mind. Her life was good, her life was nice. For the most part, she was quite satisfied with the present.

It was rather these little moments from the past that she replayed over and over again. A glance, a conversation, a text message, etched into her memory.

Possible scenes of the future, arising before her inner eye during the day and in the evening, feeling so real. Were they visions or imaginations? As usual, these questions remained open, and without even a hint of an answer, she continued with her cooking.

After dinner, she went out onto the balcony with a glass of white wine and a lighter in her hand. She made herself comfortable in her little corner and looked over the railing at the city. It was late now, the streets were quieter and the air a bit cooler. Vea pulled her sweater up to her chin with both hands and exhaled.

A year and a half ago, she ended up in this apartment, which was on the third floor of a five-story building. An okay neighborhood in a medium-sized city. It had its flaws, like the bulky windows and limited storage space, but this balcony alone, this two-square-meter oasis, made up for it all.

She took the lighter and lit a candle, which had already become about a third smaller. A third of its life was already over, while Vea thought it would last forever. However, she hadn’t considered how the candle would be needed more on some days, requiring it to burn longer than normal.

How time flew by, far too slowly at first, and then suddenly in a flash.

In front of her were a few magazines, a notebook and a novel. Depending on her mood, she helped herself to one of the objects. Today, it was the notebook’s turn. She had recently developed a liking for putting her thoughts on paper, intuitively and unfiltered, even though she was skeptical at first, as with most of today’s trends. Vea opened the pale brown booklet with a soft leather cover and leafed through the pages of the past weeks. As she skimmed through the words, a mix of emotions flowed through her, reflected on her face.

She was looking for answers, for the right path. She wanted to know if she was investing her time in the right people, or unintentionally delaying the path written for her, taking detours. Why couldn’t she get just a tiny glimpse into her own future?

And why did her notes always revolve around the same questions?