I placed a damping cup of black tea in front of her. As well sugar and a pack of cookies. I took place, evading her eyes. Instead, I checked the kitchen, investigating its flaws and mistakes.

“Are you sure you want to listen to my story? It's quite long and perhaps even boring.”

I apologised, a thing I did too often back then and looked her in the eye. “Please, proceed.”

She smiled. “I grew up in a little town, quite far from here. My parents owned a cafe, so from a small age, I helped where I could. The guests were interesting back then, each had their own story, and all their paths converged at our place. It sparked my interest in stories and humans, back then I had not heard of the term psychology yet. There was a man that lost his sight but found his way to us by smells and sounds. There were depressions and drunkards, there were parties. Each Christmas we used to decorate the place, me and my sister, that is. It changed when we were fourteen, and the cafe burned down to the ground. I still dream about the place, it was my home.” She made a why to smile and let out a sigh. She went through her hair and cleared her voice. As if only then she realised there was tea, she took the cup in both hands and sipped. “We forgot to remove the bag.”

“My father was devastated, my mother heartbroken. My sister and I were left in this whirlwind of uncertainty as he started drinking. Do you know what alcohol does with you, Barnabas? It depends on how you use it, it can be innocent like three friends sharing a bottle and reminiscing the past. But when you use it to avoid the shadows, they manifest. People always do the opposite of what they should, when you tell them no they mean yes. When you encourage them, they think you manipulate them to do something they don’t want. We’re all scared of shadows, aren’t we? Anyways, my story. Until our teenage years' things had been simple and quiet in their loud way. But now we were all broken. My sister and I left home at fifteen, our uncle you see, had gathered great riches. I decided to become a psychologist. Why do you think I did that?”

“Oh.” I wasn’t anticipating questions. “Because you wanted to fix what was broken. both in yourself and your family?”

She smiled. “I think so too. I swore never to drink and to bring clarity in my little world. Build something out of the rubble of the past. Our world was quiet, but now I realised my mother had never really smiled. Why was that? So we came here, to this quiet town. My sister met a boy and fell in love. I focused on my studies, and my hopes to fix the world. But when you’re so focused on fixing, things break all around you. We were twins, you see. My sister and I were one soul diluted in two different bodies. But after the fire, I lost some connection to her. These things can be traumatic, alter your brain in ways you can’t fathom. Are you still a virgin?”

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I remained silent and stared at the cupboard.

“I think yes.”

“Do you ask these kinds of questions often?” I said.

“A first time changes you. But I think your answer is no. Anyhow. My sister got to know a boy, but he was older, way older. The older you get, the fewer age matters. But ten years is a lot when you're fifteen. My sister, realising she could never have him, suicide that year. I lost another precious part of myself that day.”

“Oh. I’m… sorry… my father also recently died. Does the pain get better?”

She sipped some more tea. “You learn to live with it, but it never really fades. It’s a scar that remains forever. What happened to your father?”

I hated to talk about it, but she made me feel at ease. I think wanted to expose myself to her, let her judge me in her light. I wanted to tell her who I was.

“His car crashed into the canal. I don’t know if it even was an accident, to be honest. The police came to our house one day, bringing this news. I guess my father dying is just news. It happened this summer.”

“I am so sorry for you, Barnabas.”

“Ever since I have evaded stepping in a car,” I said. “I feel like death is all around me. I can… even see them.”

“You can? Tell me.”

I told her the story my mother told me. Explained everything that had happened to me so far. Everything except Mack’s poetry group. I went upstairs to find the photograph and handed it over.

As I told her more, Yasmine’s eyes grew. As if she was absorbing my words almost physically. Sometimes she wanted to say something, but bit on her lip and let me speak.

“That’s my story,” I concluded.

“The girl you see.” She said. “I think it’s my sister.” She had a glassy look in her eye, like a wet floor.

“Can I have your phone number?” she asked with a little voice. “I want to visit you again.”

She stayed in her car for half an hour, then she slowly drove away. I watched her leave from the window in my mothers' room. She had kept the photograph in her hands, but I didn’t think of asking it back. That day I realised our paths were woven together.