Having forgotten about this incident, I walked away from the door and carefully placed the folders with the experimental protocols on the shelves, carefully aligning them along the edges so that there was not the slightest disorder. As always, everything had to be in its place, even if night was falling outside the window and the unchanging silence reigned outside the laboratory windows.
I locked the cabinet with important data, hung the key on a nail, and, throwing on a robe, headed for the door. My steps echoed monotonously off the old tiles, perfectly leveled in the corridor, echoing in the emptiness. Everything was as usual. Only I felt the tension in the air growing.
Down at the end of the hallway, where I always left a couple of lamps on in case it got dark, the silence had returned, but now it felt strange, like something was wrong. I looked away from the lab doors and stopped abruptly, feeling something cold tighten in my chest. It was as if my brain was working faster than my emotions.
Footsteps. Exactly. The sound I heard now was definitely not an echo of my own footsteps. It was something else. A clear and distinct echo in the silence of the night.
A moment of confusion - and a thought struck me like lightning: a rat. I couldn't be mistaken. One of the rats that ran around in my experimental enclosure might have escaped from its cage. But how could it? It was securely locked. I checked myself.
But the steps continued. No, they were not mine. They sounded more and more distinct. And now I distinctly heard something scraping at the door, sliding along the floor, shifting light objects, almost touching them.
I froze with my head up, not daring to turn around. My breathing became heavy, and my muscles seemed to have turned to stone. The last moments before the lab closed flashed through my mind: I was sure that all the cells were in place, everything was hermetically sealed.
But the steps continued. Echoing in the air, they became unbearably loud, filling the space.
"It's impossible," I whispered under my breath, but my voice seemed unable to penetrate the wall of fear.
I looked at the door again. This time I felt not only the physical presence of something alien, but also the awareness that I might have missed something, something invisible that had slipped past my attention. The fear was strange: it did not dictate my actions, but seemed to blur reality before my eyes, subordinating it to its shadow.
I carefully pulled the handle, but did not open the door right away. My hand, as if under the weight of an invisible weight, froze in the air. And only at that moment did I hear something quietly scratching the floor, as if something small and quickly gliding, leaving behind traces invisible to the eye.
And then I understood. A rat. It was a rat, but not a simple one. It was the result of my experiments that could not possibly exist. How long I had prepared it, how many times I had reworked the same protocols, trying to perfect the lab work, and now, perhaps, one of the experiments...was getting out of control.
A moment of calm, and all was clear. Something more than a rat could leave these walls.
I was standing in a dark corridor when suddenly, from the shadows, a grey ball rushed towards me with some incredible speed. It flew straight at my chest, and before I could react, its body collided with mine, literally throwing me back. At that moment, the air seemed to compress, and my heart almost jumped out of my chest. I was so terrified that I could neither move nor scream. My body seemed paralyzed. The seconds dragged on like an eternity.
The grey ball was something far more vile than I had expected. It was not just an animal, not just a rat or a cat. It was something that defied understanding. I could feel its fur rubbing against my skin, leaving behind cold, sticky marks. It was alive, but it also seemed dead, somehow disgustingly inert, as if a part of it had come straight from a nightmare.
I was so terrified that I could barely breathe. My throat was so tight that I couldn't even take a breath. It felt like something was stuck inside me, like a lump of rough ash. A horrible, crazy lump that filled my chest, burning from the inside. I tried to push it away, but I couldn't. My fingers were stuck in its wet fur, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't move that nasty lump from my chest.
Every moment felt like a test of endurance, every breath like a struggle against an invisible obstacle that defied willpower. I felt my body giving in, and at that moment I tried to make such an effort as if I were throwing off a stone slab. Everything inside me exploded, and I was finally able to move the ball from my chest, knocking it aside. I collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath, my hands shaking as I grabbed for air.
But something about what I had just felt was still behind me. I lay there, exhausted, on the cold floor, unable to believe what had just happened. It was as if that horrible, slimy lump had been part of something bigger. And I knew that if I didn't stop it, it would come back.
I woke up in the car seat, stunned by the feeling as if I had just been pulled out of a deep sleep. A strange feeling in my head - my head was heavy, my eyes could not get used to the semi-darkness, and my body seemed not yet ready to return to reality. I tried to move, but as soon as I raised my head, I noticed that I was not alone. Robert was sitting next to me.
In the darkness of the dashboard, a green light flickered faintly. It fell on his face, making his profile hard and clear, as if he had been carved from stone. I could see his eyes, which were focused on the road, and his figure, relaxed against the seat. He kept his hands crossed on the wheel, and seemed completely unconcerned, as if he had driven this route a thousand times.
At that moment, I realized that he was almost ironically calm, like a man who was used to being behind the wheel even in the most unexpected situations. His posture was too confident, too calm for a night drive that had begun so strangely. Somewhere, perhaps, he had seen this posture - perhaps from some professional driver, or from some movie where the hero always sits as if he controls everything around him, as if asserting his power over the traffic.
I wanted to ask how long we had been traveling, or what had happened, but instead I just sighed softly and looked at his face. He didn't notice my gaze and remained silent, as if this was a normal trip, as if all these strange events that had brought us here didn't matter.
I looked around again, feeling time stretch, as if this moment was frozen and we were both part of something much bigger than just a night road trip.
"Robert," I said quietly, but his face didn't move. "What happened?"
He turned his head slightly towards me, but did not say a word. There was neither fear nor surprise in his gaze, as if the answers to all the questions had long been known.
"Don't worry," he said, turning his attention back to the road. And his voice was so confident that even the darkness around him seemed insignificant. "Everything will be fine."
And although I didn't know what exactly lay ahead, I couldn't shake the feeling that this trip had become something much more important than just getting from one point to another.
I sat in the seat, my forehead against the glass, watching the night creep past the window. The dark road, the dim headlights, the silence broken only by the noise of the engine - all this was a strange counterpoint to my thoughts. I was thinking about Robert.
Robert. He was my lover, but it was no ordinary affair. He was more than just a temporary comfort. He was genuine, in some ways the most real person in my life since Asia died. She was gone, and I was left alone, with an emptiness that nothing could fill. The thought of her, her smile, her look, the way she called me "darling" in the most unremarkable moments, all of it fades into the past, leaving only scars.
I didn't want to marry a second time. A woman who could take Asia's place seemed like a mirage, vague and intangible. And I was desperately looking for something else. I don't know what I was looking for, but I knew I didn't want anything in my life that could become familiar, tiresome. And so I followed the path I had read about in Oscar Wilde's novel, a way that would lead me to a place where I could free myself from attachments and expectations. The path that Dorian Gray had followed. The path where there was room for eternal youth, for preserving appearances but losing everything else. Where you could hide your true feelings, your weaknesses from everyone, and where you would always remain somewhat invisible.
Robert was my choice, my experiment. He was the one who didn't make me feel guilty for living without a wife. He was the one who seemed to be looking for something invisible, something that had no name, and at the same time he was real. He didn't demand promises from me, didn't impose his presence. It was as if we were moving along a line, between a world where everyone had long ago realized what they had lost, and a world where we could still hold on to our weaknesses, hide them, without thinking about the consequences.
But this road, this night, they seemed to burn into my mind. I thought that perhaps I didn't quite know what I was doing. Robert was my lover, but I could also call him a friend, and someone who had filled in the gaps left by Asia's death. But there was also an uneasiness. I still couldn't escape the feeling that every step, every look, every smile Robert gave me was part of something I couldn't quite control. The path of Dorian Gray was easy to follow, but it held no promise of an easy exit.
I looked away from the road, looking at him again. He was sitting next to me, as always, calm and confident. There was no pity in his eyes, no worries for me. He was part of the world I was in now. And at some point it became clear to me that I would not be able to get out, no matter how hard I tried.
Yes, I thought, I am like Dorian Gray - in other words, gay. And this was not so much a revelation as a simple fact that I could not ignore. The comparison with the hero of the great Wilde's novel did not seem strange at that moment. It was like a logical continuation of the path I was walking. Dorian, with his thirst for eternal beauty, with his inability to grow old, with his alienation from reality, was a mirror of what I had become. I, too, was running from aging, not only physical but also internal. I avoided attachments, strove for bright moments, leaving behind only traces - traces of sensations, traces of love, traces of passion that are impossible to preserve.
Robert, sitting next to me, seemed part of this world. He was not just a lover - he was my ideal, but only until I began to feel that this particular connection could be empty and superficial. It was as if he could not claim anything more. We were connected, but only in this little bubble that I myself had created around us, like Dorian, hiding my true face and hiding my feelings.
I considered my feelings as I watched his profile in the lights. He was foreign to the idea. Robert did not seek eternal beauty or immortality. He was a real, living person who was not afraid to grow old and change his views. He was not my mirror, but rather someone who came and went, leaving behind a little warmth and unremarkable memories.
"I'm like Dorian Gray," I repeated to myself.
And it was more than an admission of my sexuality. It was an admission of how I had always played a role. I had become a master of dissimulation, hiding my true feelings, as if under cover of night, behind a mask I had created for myself. I didn't need an explanation. It was clear: I stayed young because I didn't allow myself to age. My relationships, my connections, it was all part of a game in which I always stayed one step ahead.
And so I sat there, Robert next to me, and I knew he wasn't what I needed. But I couldn't leave. I was like Dorian: on the other side of fear, searching for eternal youth and satisfaction, but always finding it wasn't enough.
I looked at Robert, his profile in the dim light of the instruments seemed almost monumental, as if carved from stone. He was focused, absorbed in the road, and at that moment I wanted only one thing - to hug him, to press him to me, to kiss him in a way I would never have dared before. All these feelings that I had hidden deep inside seemed to burst out, ready to overwhelm me.
I knew it wasn't just a desire - it was a need, almost physical. But something was stopping me. And it wasn't the kind of thing that stops people, not shyness or fear. It was something more, something that made me freeze, even as my hands reached for him, and the mad desire pounded in my chest.
He was driving the car.
It was such a simple and yet so decisive moment. Robert was driving. He wasn't just my lover, not just part of this complex world I'd created for myself, he was the one who controlled the space around us. And in that moment, I realized that my need for closeness, for physical contact with him, was connected to something bigger. His confidence, his calm, his ability to keep his eyes on the road - all of it filled me with a strange combination of admiration and fear. I couldn't take responsibility for this moment, couldn't allow myself to act.
This feeling of his hand on the wheel and his distant gaze controlling everything around him was overwhelming. It was as if I wanted to take him, but I knew I couldn't. I knew there was more to this action, and it couldn't be part of our connection. It would be an act of unconscious affection, and it would probably be destructive.
My hands dropped. I leaned back in the seat, feeling the tension drain away, and instead of acting, I simply watched. We continued driving down the night road, and despite my desire, I knew that this moment had not come.
"Well, what's wrong with you? Can't sit still? We're almost there," I heard Robert's voice, and despite the fact that he said it with a little humor, I felt his patience melting with every kilometer.
The road stretched on endlessly, and I, sitting in this cramped cabin, increasingly felt like I was starting to suffocate. Everything around me became some kind of stuffy, overheated atmosphere, and I could not get rid of the feeling that I was about to explode from this pressure.
My gaze slid over his face. Robert was focused, his hands firmly on the steering wheel, and even in this cramped car, his calm seemed alien to me. He was always like this - unperturbed and calm. And me... I felt myself being drawn to him with every passing moment. As if the whole world in the car had shrunk to him and me, and I could no longer remain indifferent to this close, almost invisible contact that connected us.
"It's stuffy in this box," I muttered, pressing the corners of my lips together.
I felt the heat of his body being transmitted to me, his presence already enveloping me from head to toe. But it wasn't just a physical feeling - it was like an invisible stream, penetrating the space between us. And suddenly I couldn't stand it.
I leaned towards him, without saying a word, just leaning my cheek against his shoulder. All I could do was be there. And, unable to hold back any longer, I touched his lips. A light kiss, almost invisible, but it was everything to me. That moment, short but bright, filled the car, and I felt a warmth spread through my veins that would not go away.
Robert flinched, but did not pull away. A shadow of a smile flickered across his face, and there was that look in his eyes-attentive, almost surprised. He had not expected it, and neither had I. I did not know that with that kiss I had opened the door to something we had both long kept silent about.
I pulled away again, but Robert's gaze remained on me, heavy, half-understanding, as if he were finally beginning to understand what was happening. He didn't say a word, but he didn't turn back to the road right away. We both, for a moment, forgot that we had to go, that we had to keep moving.
"You're right," he said finally, his voice quiet and a little tired. "Sometimes I forget how unbearably close you can be."
I smiled, holding my breath, but now, instead of fighting the feeling, I embraced it. The air that had been so thick and tense was now filled with something else. Something elusive hung in the car, and we both knew that something new was coming.
One turn, then another, and shafts of light opened up long corridors between the trunks of tall pines. The car was in no hurry, gliding smoothly along the road, where every moment seemed different, where darkness alternated with bright flashes of light, and these moments froze, revealing only the shadows of the trees. There was emptiness below, and around, as in some strange movie, we were moving into this world, alien and familiar at the same time.
I sat in the shadows, leaning forward slightly, and looked at Robert. His face was illuminated by the green light from the instruments, reflecting a calmness and confidence that always seemed unnatural to me. I looked for any worry, even the slightest shadow of doubt, but I found none. He was the one who kept this world under control, and although I knew that something complex lurked behind his mask, I admired the man.
I looked at him with puppy eyes, trying to see something more in his movements. But what I saw was what I had been looking for: calm, which is not so easy to find in a world full of chaos. He was a real hero, a real leader - or at least that's what he seemed like at that moment. He was not distracted, did not look at me. All his attention was directed forward, into the dark road, into this forest that could hide anything. He was driving the car as if every turn, every movement was not just an action, but an act of control that he imposed on himself. He was above it all, it seemed that nothing could outshine his gaze.
I felt a strange feeling growing in my chest. I would be glad to merge with him, to become part of this world he was creating around himself. But was I ready?
"Aren't you afraid?" I asked, not expecting an answer, just trying to understand what in his life was so easy for him.
Robert turned his head slightly and his gaze met mine. He was not surprised, did not look at me with condemnation or strangeness. He only said quietly:
"I'm afraid. But sometimes you have to move forward despite the fear."
I didn't know if this was the answer I was expecting. He didn't explain, didn't reveal his thoughts, but his words, as always, remained measured and honest. And there was power in that. He didn't need words to be truthful. He was simply being himself.
The car turned smoothly again, and we were drawn into another tunnel of light that was breaking through the trees. I felt myself being overcome by an ever-increasing sense of respect and admiration for him. And at that moment, when I looked at his face, I realized that he was the very hero who did not expect recognition.
As I expected, Robert didn't slow down at the edge of the clearing, screeching to a halt just outside the tent where we'd spent the night, Brokeback Mountain style. His confidence in his actions didn't change - he always had. Not a single turn, not a single obstacle in his path made him hesitate. The car thudded to a stop, and I felt the dust settle around us, leaving tracks in the air.
We both sat in silence, staring into the darkness ahead. The night was warm, but the air seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something. Everything was too quiet, as if the world was holding its breath so as not to disturb us. We had just been through a night of conversation, tent noise, laughter, and silence. In that moment, I realized that the Brokeback Mountain-style night had not been just a carefree sleepover. It had been more. We both knew that no matter how hard we tried to hide our feelings, they had found a way out. In a way, this was our unconscious attempt to reclaim what had been lost, to find something important that had disappeared from our lives.
Robert, without saying a word, turned off the engine and looked at me. His gaze was firm, but there was also a slight weariness in it. He was a man of action, not given to conversation, but even in his silence I felt that he was there, with me, on the other side of this foggy border that we were both trying to cross.
"Well," I said, not knowing what I wanted to hear, but realizing that the question was not so much for him as for me. "Do you know how long we'll be staying here?"
Robert exhaled slowly, looking up at the dark sky, which was bursting with light from distant stars. He didn't answer right away. His silence said more than words. He knew that even if we didn't speak, we both understood. All of these moments, our time spent together, were indescribable. And all we could do was just be here.
"Until we feel the time is right," he said at last, and though his voice was reserved, there was a gentleness to it that I would not have expected from him at such a moment.
I looked at him again, and this moment, when words were not needed, when we both understood each other without unnecessary phrases, became a kind of conclusion, as if we were both on the same level, on the same horizon. Everything that was happening seemed unimportant. We just sat there, in the shadow of the night, knowing that our journey was not over.