11 years: Part 3

Next morning Brandon could not stay in his body. He rushed towards Karen's house which was at the foothills nearby. But she wasnt there. He knew where to find her. Karen was on the old concrete court behind the café, sleeves pushed up, hair tied loosely, the ball moving between her hands as if it understood her mood. She was not playing to win. She was playing to empty herself. The thud of the ball against the ground steadied her breath. Brandon stood watching for a moment, unsure if he was allowed to enter this version of her. Then he stepped forward, caught the ball mid bounce, and smiled with a shyness that surprised them both. They played without rules. A few shots, a few misses. At one point he moved too close, reaching for the ball, his arm brushing her waist. Karen froze for half a second, then laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. She spun away, skirt swaying, aware of her body in a way that was new and oddly innocent. His eyes followed her movement, not hungry, just present. When she tried to shoot, he stood behind her, correcting her posture without touching at first. Then, almost apologetically, his hands rested at her elbows. The contact was brief, careful, but something warm passed between them. She felt it settle low in her body, not urgent, not demanding, just awake. They stopped playing before either of them knew who had won. They sat on the steps with two coffees between them, knees almost touching. The conversation drifted, as it always did, toward books, toward the places where language breaks under the weight of longing. Kafka came up naturally. She spoke about his letters, the ache of wanting connection while fearing it. Brandon listened, then said quietly that Kafka wrote as if love was a door he could see but never fully enter. Karen looked at him then, really looked, and realised he was not speaking about Kafka alone. The silence between them grew thick, but not uncomfortable. Karen closed her notebook. “I come here when I want to disappear properly.” He stood close, then paused. “Before I touch you… I need you to know. This isn’t desire that wants to take.” She looked up. “Then what is it?” “Something older,” he said. “The need to become complete without crossing you.” “Then hold me,” she whispered. “Like that.” His arms came around her slowly. Karen exhaled. “This feels… whole.” “That’s because I’m not trying to own you.” She smiled against his chest. “Kafka would call this hunger without cruelty. Nabokov would forgive the precision.” Before leaving, she slipped a folded page into his pocket. “What did you write?” he asked. “Nothing finished,” she said. “Read it when you’re ready.” Later, alone, he opened it. One line only. This touch was a beginning disguised as restraint.