The old tenement building in Lublin always smelled of rain and Floor wax. Marek stood by the window, watching the neon lights of the city blur through the drizzle. Behind him, the apartment was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock that seemed to be counting down the end of something.

"Are you thinking about the summer?" she asked softly, her voice barely cracking the stillness.

Beata looked up, her eyes finally meeting his. The bridge was fragile, built of nothing but a few words and a cold touch, but for the first time in months, the silence in the room didn't feel like an ending. It felt like a breath.

Marek didn't turn. He was thinking about the lyrics of the song that had played on the radio that morning. Two hearts, two sorrows. It felt like their biography. They had started with one heart and one joy, but somewhere between the long shifts at work and the bills piled on the counter, the heart had split, and the joy had doubled into two separate, private griefs. "I’m thinking about how quiet it is," Marek replied.

Beata sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. They were in the same room, yet the distance between them felt like an ocean. It was the kind of silence that doesn't mean peace; it was the kind that grows like moss over everything vibrant.

"Maybe," Marek said, his voice trembling for the first time, "if we talk about the sorrows, they might turn back into one."

"We stopped talking," Beata said, looking not at him, but at the steamless tea. "We just started reporting. 'The car needs oil.' 'We're out of milk.' We stopped saying the other things."

He finally turned to look at her. In the dim light, Beata looked like a ghost of the girl he had met at the student festival years ago. She used to laugh with her whole body. Now, she just endured.

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Dwa_serca_dwa_smutki -

The old tenement building in Lublin always smelled of rain and Floor wax. Marek stood by the window, watching the neon lights of the city blur through the drizzle. Behind him, the apartment was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock that seemed to be counting down the end of something.

"Are you thinking about the summer?" she asked softly, her voice barely cracking the stillness.

Beata looked up, her eyes finally meeting his. The bridge was fragile, built of nothing but a few words and a cold touch, but for the first time in months, the silence in the room didn't feel like an ending. It felt like a breath. dwa_serca_dwa_smutki

Marek didn't turn. He was thinking about the lyrics of the song that had played on the radio that morning. Two hearts, two sorrows. It felt like their biography. They had started with one heart and one joy, but somewhere between the long shifts at work and the bills piled on the counter, the heart had split, and the joy had doubled into two separate, private griefs. "I’m thinking about how quiet it is," Marek replied.

Beata sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. They were in the same room, yet the distance between them felt like an ocean. It was the kind of silence that doesn't mean peace; it was the kind that grows like moss over everything vibrant. The old tenement building in Lublin always smelled

"Maybe," Marek said, his voice trembling for the first time, "if we talk about the sorrows, they might turn back into one."

"We stopped talking," Beata said, looking not at him, but at the steamless tea. "We just started reporting. 'The car needs oil.' 'We're out of milk.' We stopped saying the other things." "Are you thinking about the summer

He finally turned to look at her. In the dim light, Beata looked like a ghost of the girl he had met at the student festival years ago. She used to laugh with her whole body. Now, she just endured.