She noticed him at once.

A thick mass of white hair. It fell across his forehead, and he kept brushing it back with his hand, revealing bright blue eyes.

She caught her breath at the freshness that seemed to fill everything around him.

His youth allowed him to be anything he wanted. And he was.

Almost a masterpiece.

Unfinished.

He sat alone, watching people with a curiosity she had long since stopped noticing in grown men.

“How old is he?” she asked.

“Twenty-seven. Or twenty-eight.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Very young.”

“For you, yes.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“But you got it.”

She smiled.

Just then, he looked in her direction.

His gaze was direct and completely unguarded.

“He’s looking at you,” her friend said quietly.

“Let him.”

“And you?”

She set down her glass.

“So am I.”

Now he was smiling.

Not broadly. Not confidently.

As if they had already agreed on something.

They met twenty minutes later.

“I know you,” he said.

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never seen you before.”

“But I’ve seen you.”

“Where?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

She laughed.

“Excellent way to start a conversation.”

“I’m serious.”

He looked completely calm.

Without the caution young men usually had when speaking to women her age. Without trying to be especially polite. Without condescension.

And without fear.

She liked that.

“Do you always look at people like that?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“As if you’re going to remember them.”

He thought about it.

“Not everyone.”

“And me?”

“You, yes.”

“Why?”

“You’ve already been through something.”

“What’s your name?”

He told her.

She repeated it silently.

A beautiful name.

Too young for her.

“And yours?”

She told him.

He tilted his head.

“Beautiful.”

“Do you say that to every woman?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I tell the other women they’re beautiful.”

She laughed again.

“Cocky.”

“A little.”

“So what do you want from me?”

He looked at her so intently that the smile slowly disappeared from her face.

“Nothing. For now.”

A pause.

“And later?”

“We’ll see.”

And it was so reckless, so unlike everything she had grown accustomed to over the past few years, that suddenly she wanted to test it.

She smiled.

“Are you ready?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Careful.”

“I just don’t like putting a period down too soon.”

Now she looked at him carefully.

“Do you even like periods?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“Once you put a period down, there’s nothing left to add.”

Suddenly, she was interested.

Very.

She took a sip of wine.

“I like ellipses.”

“I noticed.”

“How?”

“You leave me with the feeling that the conversation isn’t finished yet.”

She smiled.

Talking to him was dangerous.

Not because he said anything particularly clever.

Quite the opposite. He said very simple things.

But they landed exactly where they needed to.

As if he left a blank exactly where she wanted to add something.

They met again a week later.

Then again.

He asked a lot of questions.

Not the kind people ask out of politeness.

He genuinely wanted to know.

Why was she alone?

Why had she never married?

Why had she changed careers?

Why had she once left for another country and then returned?

Why did she love old songs?

Why did she laugh when she was angry?

Why did she sometimes fall silent in the middle of a sentence?

She didn’t answer everything.

Some things she liked keeping to herself.

“You want to know too much about me,” she said one day.

“And you leave too much unsaid.”

“Maybe I’m just used to choosing what I say.”

“And I’m used to people telling me everything.”

“Confident.”

“No. It’s just that I used to meet people who were afraid of empty space.”

She looked at him.

“Aren’t you afraid of emptiness?”

He smiled.

“What’s there to be afraid of?”

She didn’t answer.

Suddenly, it seemed to her that he really didn’t understand.

Or understood too well.

With him, she could feel a long-forgotten desire rising inside her —

not to be young,

not to seem young,

but simply to want.

It was something else entirely.

“You don’t know anything about me yet,” she said.

“That’s why I’m interested.”

“And if you find out everything — will you be disappointed?”

“Then I’ll know.”

“And what will you do with what you find out?”

He looked straight into her eyes.

“I’ll add another line.”

She laughed.

“What line?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You’re always saying you don’t know.”

“Because I don’t like it when my story has already been written for me.”

She fell silent.

For some reason, that sentence touched something deeper in her than it should have.

A month later, she already knew his habits.

He didn’t like ready-made answers.

He started over without regret.

He wasn’t afraid to change direction.

Wasn’t afraid to make mistakes.

Wasn’t afraid to look ridiculous.

Sometimes she envied him.

Not his youth.

His freedom.

“Have you ever regretted something you’ve done?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“And then what?”

“I crossed it out.”

“Everything?”

“If I couldn’t cross it out, I rewrote it.”

She looked at him with a faint smile.

“Lucky you.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know yet how many things can’t be rewritten.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Would you rewrite anything?”

She stared out the window for a long time.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have to rewrite everything else.”

He smiled.

“So you like your story?”

She smiled too.

“I like that it’s mine.”

He said nothing.

He only moved closer.

And for the first time it occurred to her that perhaps she had really met someone she didn’t feel the need to explain anything to.

He needed only space.

She needed movement.

And there was less and less empty space between them.

That evening, he touched her hand for the first time.

Completely by accident.

At least, that was one way to see it.

She didn’t move her hand away.

“Are you always this brave?”

“No.”

“And now?”

“Now it feels like I can be.”

She looked at his fingers.

Young. Warm. Confident, although he himself still had no idea how much.

She knew what different hands felt like.

Firm ones. Nervous ones. Possessive ones. Careful ones.

Some had touched her as if they were afraid of getting dirty.

Others as if they meant to hurt her.

This one was different.

Young.

Clean.

He didn’t know what to do with her, and that was exactly what she liked.

She moved closer.

Barely perceptibly.

“Have you never seen anyone like me before?”

He seemed to flinch.

And then she felt his gaze —

slow, attentive, utterly shameless.

He was looking at her.

She suddenly caught herself wanting to straighten up.

To show him the lines of her body, the cold sheen of her skin, the small scratch on her back — a memory of some long-ago, almost forgotten adventure.

She liked that he knew nothing about her past.

He still had his future to discover.

They were so comfortable together.

Together, and here, now.

Starting all over again.

Click.

The buttons on her blouse came undone faster than she expected.

The sound was unexpectedly intimate.

Her clothes fell into a heap around her feet and fell silent.

Her black hair spilled loose, hiding what he wanted to see.

The white expanse of her body became whiter still.

He stepped closer and pressed almost against her.

There was only breath between them.

“Don’t hurry,” she said.

And for the first time, a barely visible shadow appeared in his eyes —

anticipation.

She touched him with her fingertip.

The first line.

Tender, confident, alive.

He shuddered.

She drew another.

Then another.

As if she were writing words.

Almost without resistance.

She liked his surprise.

He liked her boldness.

That was how their night began.

The tips of her hair slid across his stomach, drawing intricate lines.

She wrote, and he took everything she had to give.

The sentences grew longer.

Her breathing quickened.

There was less and less white space between the words.

She no longer asked whether she could.

He no longer hesitated.

At some point, she stopped.

At the very edge.

Where there was still nothing.

Where anything could appear.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

And suddenly she was afraid.

Not because he was too young.

Not because she was too experienced.

But because now the very thing was about to happen — the thing people sometimes live an entire life for.

She bent down.

Touched him with the tip of her tongue.

And…

nothing.

She tried again.

Nothing changed.

“Strange,” she said.

She shook herself.

Harder.

Tensed without meaning to.

At first, a thin, almost transparent scratch appeared.

Then —

nothing.

She froze when she noticed silver strands in her dark hair.

One.

Another.

A third.

She watched them multiply.

Watched the darkness recede.

Her body faded, slowly losing every shade that made it distinct.

And he was still there —

young, white, impatient.

And completely at a loss for what to do now.

She smiled.

“Well then, boy.”

He was silent.

“Do you think I could have rewritten this?”

And for the first time all night, she had the feeling that he was about to answer.

But he only gave the slightest shiver beneath her tip.

White.

Dazzlingly white.

Completely empty.

A blank sheet.

She turned it over and traced with her body:

“She noticed him at once.”

Almost Rewritten History was originally published in The Interstitial on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The faucet is dripping in the kitchen.

A familiar sound. I’m home.

The lamp flickers on, then goes dark again. A strange sense of safety, of being needed, takes me by the hand.

I play four-handed.

Drip.

My hands rest on my knees.

I’m sitting at a concert grand with no keys except one — a single black key.

Behind me, a surgeon in a blue gown and rubber gloves turns the pages of the score.

Then the hands begin to move, fast and uncertain, running and stumbling.

Drip.

The IV goes in.

Medicine? Poison?

It trickles through the plastic tube and into me, killing everything that is alive.

Chemotherapy.

The doctors say it’s my only chance.

The cancer has to be ripped out by the roots before it rips me out of life.

Drip.

The sound shoots through me.

My cells have declared war.

My body, almost no longer mine, is on the front line.

I slide down into a trench.

I don’t have the strength to get back up.

Where do I shoot?

Am I still alive, or already gone?

My eyes are closed.

Drip.

It’s too early to wake up.

Let the night wait a little longer.

Just a little. Please.

The air smells of fear.

I still have time.

I’ll decide before morning.

Drip.

Outside the window, an icicle is melting.

Spring smells like change.

It is being born beneath the new rain, pounding furiously against the windowsill.

Tap-tap.

A knock.

So fast.

The tiny, desperate heartbeat of my child.

It beats against logic, against oncology protocols, against death.

He doesn’t know that his cradle is melting along with me.

Drip.

My illness speaks.

There is no time.

Tap-tap.

My child answers.

Mom, I’m already here.

I freeze.

I stop breathing.

I listen.

Again.

Tap-tap.

Somewhere far away, water is dripping.

But here, inside me, someone is knocking on the door of life.

I fill a glass and drink it down in one gulp.

The water is cold.

Alive.

I feel it moving through me.

I don’t have time to choose.

Life chooses for me.

The faucet is dripping in the kitchen.

Was It Just a Dripping Faucet? was originally published in The Interstitial on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The switch clicked.

The light bulb woke with a start, as if struck across the face by a sharp slap. After flickering a few times, she settled down and began to shine steadily. Light spilled across the room, swallowing the darkness.

From the ceiling, everything was visible as clearly as if it lay in the palm of a hand.

She didn’t want to watch, but she had no choice.

Fear tightened around her throat, yet she never looked away. Scenes flashed before her like black-and-white photographs, and the horror film went on.

Once, the strain nearly made her sick.

Her nerves stretched the filament until it hummed, ready to snap. The bulb swayed from side to side, but what was happening below remained fixed in her field of vision, refusing to release its grip.

The series ran day after day, without breaks or rest. It felt as though someone had nailed her to a theater seat and forced her to watch the screen forever.

No smoking break.

No trip to the restroom.

Not even a sip of water.

The plot never changed.

Everything happened in the same room, against almost the same backdrop. Only the bed sheets were replaced after another brutal scene had ended.

The main characters always left.

They wrote their stories in uncertain handwriting until their hands weakened and rounded letters became a single hard line — echoed moments later on the monitor beside them.

The bulb sighed.

One character was replaced, and she was switched on again.

The show continued.

Stories almost reached their endings.

Almost.

They broke off mid-sentence. Voices faded away. A strange sense of incompletion lingered in the air, like an ellipsis hanging at the end of a paragraph.

The lights went out.

The curtain fell.

And after intermission, the stage remained dark.

The girl lying in the bed where doctors hovered was nearly colorless and transparent.

She looked like a small bird, with a turned-up beak of a nose and twig-like arms resting on top of the blanket.

The bulb tried to catch her eye, but the circuit between them kept breaking.

A strand of cobweb hung from the ceiling like a severed communication wire.

The girl’s inner lamp was smoldering.

Its trembling flame grew weaker and weaker, giving off almost no warmth.

Her life hung by a thread.

The bulb knew that feeling.

She wrapped herself tighter in her lampshade as anxiety surged through the wiring, making it impossible to focus.

Yesterday, things had not been quite so dark.

The bulb remembered the moment they met.

The spotlight buzzed.

A flash struck her eyes.

She blinked involuntarily and, against the blaze of light, made out the outline of a body.

The girl dropped onto the bed as though she had no fear of breaking.

Fragile as she looked, she sprawled across the mattress with arms and legs that seemed ready to snap at any moment.

She glowed.

The mischievous sparks in her blue eyes dazzled the bulb.

“Hi there, shining from the ceiling.

You’re definitely a star.

Just like me, actually.

The only difference is that nobody seems to notice.

Stars have such a hard time staying lit.”

The bulb held her breath and blinked.

How were they alike?

She examined her round glass shape but could find nothing resembling the girl’s sharp knees.

Perhaps something was wrong with her.

The thought made her overheat, and she decided to think about it later.

Meanwhile, the girl kept glowing and talking.

The bulb listened without interrupting.

She caught the meaning through her eyes rather than her ears. Words pulsed with light.

What amazed her most was how such a small and fragile body could contain so much brightness.

Was there a power plant hidden inside?

The idea flashed through her head and immediately burned out.

Thin and bony, her collarbones jutting beneath her skin, the girl laughed.

She splashed positivity everywhere, and the bulb carefully dodged the spray, afraid that a short circuit might ruin her mood.

The bulb tried to analyze the situation, but her base had only a couple of threads to work with.

So she watched.

She watched the body below slowly separate from the thoughts shining inside it, as though someone had thrown a blanket over a floor lamp.

And then the bulb understood something.

Thinking and doing were not the same thing.

You cannot fade and shine at the same time.

Why keep flipping the switch if all you’re doing is extinguishing your own light?

The girl kept cutting herself off from energy, one wire at a time.

She reflected everything that came from outside while forgetting the bright light within.

Her body grew thinner, covered with soot and scratches.

It shone more dimly with each passing day, demanding greater effort for less and less light.

The bulb jerked, desperate to flare inside the girl’s mind and change her life.

But the wire held her fast.

The fixture crackled, hummed, and flickered.

Someone would switch it off, and it would instantly forget itself.

The light on the bed became intermittent, pale, and cold.

Harder and harder to distinguish.

As the girl’s light faded, the bulb burned hotter than ever.

A shadow crept across the sheets.

It grew larger and larger until darkness began filling the room.

The bulb was burning herself out, simply doing her job, lighting the way for the girl below.

She waited for the girl to walk through the darkness toward the light.

The bulb shone with unnatural brilliance, as though giving away the last of her strength.

The filament snapped.

A soft click echoed through the room.

Darkness fell.

If stars are lit, they burn out.

The electrician replaced the bulb and flipped the switch.

A Flawed Star was originally published in The Interstitial on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The soft shell sets,
green-leaved trees and aged trees
as leading parts.
They mix with white on the palette.

Concrete, pipes, signals
move backstage.

The shell gives us a stage.
Shiny tiny diamonds stroll on the leaves.

We amble with umbrellas.
Kids skip.

Nests, the shiny king’s carpet,
unrolled, from branch to branch.
The black widow sits on a droplet.

The spotlight on.

Roads, shops, buildings
walk back onstage.
We stop taking photos,
look down at flat boxes.

I threw
mine, still there.
A cleaner picks up the drops.
Kids skip.

Thank you for reading this.
© 2026 hide.katatae

On the Stage was originally published in The Interstitial on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.