The next day, I did exactly what a mature man does after an important argument.

Nothing.

Very dignified.

Very adult.

The rabbit ate his hay with almost aggressive regularity.

Hay. Water. Cardboard.

Suspicion.

No exhibition organizer came along to explain that he represented a generation trapped inside.

Lucky.

Eugène was asleep beside the bookcase, rolled onto his side with one paw in the air, in a position that said no human crisis deserved to interfere with his spine.

“You have no opinion?”

He opened one eye.

Then closed it again.

A very comprehensive response.

The studio was quiet.

Not as usual.

Usually, quiet put things slightly back in order. It made objects sharper, distances simpler, walls more useful.

This time, it arranged nothing.

The chair still turned from the previous day.

The cushion where Liora had sat.

The door she had left through.

The wall on the right, especially.

Since the argument, it had carried almost nothing.

I would have preferred an honest silence.

This one contained implications.

I sat down in front of the computer.

The draft was still there. Correct. Almost too correct.

It looked like an email capable of wearing a beige sweater and saying, “I completely understand,” to someone who had just stepped on its foot.

I placed my hands on the keyboard.

Removed them.

Put them back.

A ridiculous warm-up before an operation requiring no physical exertion whatsoever.

I reopened the PDF.

Mistake.

A Generation Trapped Inside.

The phrase was still there.

Obviously.

“In a world saturated with screens and withdrawal, these young artists examine domestic space as an ambiguous refuge, suspended between protection and confinement.”

Ambiguous refuge.

A very useful phrase. You could apply it to almost anything without having to decide.

An ambiguous cat, for example.

Soft, warm, capable of waking you by walking across your chest with the confidence of a real-estate agent inspecting underused space.

I returned to the email.

The draft wasn’t lying.

It was only insufficient.

I didn’t want to ask for a discussion.

I wanted the text to change.

I didn’t want to arrive at the opening, see my name beneath that description, and feel my whole body withdraw while my drawings remained hanging on the wall.

I selected the message.

All of it.

My finger hovered over Delete.

Very dramatic.

A movement of a quarter inch.

I deleted it.

The page went blank.

I typed:

“Hi Mathilde,

I would prefer to withdraw my name from the exhibition.”

No.

It sounded like I was slamming a door while wearing socks.

I deleted it.

“Hi Mathilde,

I’m sorry, but I ultimately won’t be able to participate in the exhibition.”

Even worse.

I was able to participate.

I didn’t want to participate like this.

I deleted it again.

The rabbit scratched at his rug.

“Yes, I know.”

He looked at me.

“Technically, you know nothing, but I appreciate the effort.”

He returned to his hay.

I stood, opened a cupboard for no reason, then closed it.

Pointless movement accomplished.

My brain felt slightly more qualified.

I reopened the images.

The kitchen. The table. The studio. The window. The hallway.

For two days, I had been looking at them as compromised objects.

Contaminated by the text.

It was absurd, but other people’s gaze sometimes did that. It arrived before they did, moved the furniture, stuck labels onto things.

I zoomed in on the drawing of the table.

An empty plate.

A cup with a tea stain.

Two crumbs.

Morning light interrupted by a chair.

Nothing spectacular.

Nothing confined.

Only a place afterward.

After someone.

After a gesture.

After a conversation, perhaps.

A room that didn’t need to shout to prove it had been inhabited.

I picked up my sketchbook and found the sentence:

I draw places after people have passed through them.

It was uneven.

But right.

I returned to the email.

This time, I wrote more slowly.

“Hi Mathilde,

I’m getting back to you regarding the wall text and the presentation of my series.

I understand the overall direction of the section, but the interpretation centered on confinement does not reflect my intention. My rooms are about chosen spaces, traces, quiet, habits, and subtle ways of inhabiting a place.

I’m not trying to deny that a form of solitude can be read in these images, but I don’t want them to be presented as a symptom of withdrawal or an inability to go outside.

I’d like to suggest wording that feels closer to the series:

‘In his images, Aurèl draws places after bodies have passed through them: a table, a window, a hallway, a studio. The spaces seem quiet, but they retain the traces of habits, subtle presences, and repeated gestures. His work is concerned less with confinement than with the way a place becomes inhabited.’

If the presentation needs to remain centered on the idea of a generation trapped inside, I would prefer to withdraw my name and my pieces from the exhibition.

I’m available to discuss it.

Thank you,

Aurèl”

I read it again.

Once.

Twice.

On the third time, I moved a comma.

Then put it back.

I removed “rather.”

Then restored it.

Without it, the sentence seemed too hard.

With it, the sentence took a step backward.

I kept it and disliked myself slightly.

Not dramatically.

With the weariness you felt toward someone who moved a cup instead of putting out a fire.

I reread the important sentence.

“If the presentation needs to remain centered on the idea of a generation trapped inside, I would prefer to withdraw my name and my pieces from the exhibition.”

It was there.

Not hidden.

Not so polite it disappeared.

Not aggressive either.

A boundary.

The word arrived with unpleasant clarity.

A boundary.

Not an escape.

Maybe.

I closed my eyes.

My brain immediately opened a full department of catastrophic scenarios.

Mathilde offended.

The email forwarded to the committee with the note: “Aurèl problem.”

A man in round glasses saying beside the buffet, “When you agree to a group exhibition, you have to accept the curatorial framework.”

Curatorial framework.

I already hated him.

Then Liora.

Obviously.

Liora seeing only the final sentence.

I would prefer to withdraw my name.

Liora saying softly:

“I understand.”

Worse than anything.

I opened my eyes.

The email was still there.

I placed the cursor over Send.

You learned to protect things by taking them away.

I didn’t want her to be right.

I didn’t want to prove her wrong merely to win an argument either.

I only wanted this gesture not to be a disappearance.

So I asked myself whether I was disappearing.

The answer arrived slowly.

No.

Not this time.

I wasn’t removing my work from the world.

I was saying where it could stand.

Which might have been more frightening.

I clicked.

Send.

No earthquake.

No power outage.

The window only displayed:

Message sent.

Two words.

Very restrained.

Very cruel.

“There,” I said.

My voice seemed to belong to someone else.

Eugène didn’t react.

Neither did Lapin.

Difficult audience.

I checked my sent messages.

The email was there.

Real.

I had written it.

I had sent it.

I had set a boundary.

And I didn’t feel better.

Scandalous information.

We had been lied to extensively about boundaries.

In movies, books, and conversations between people who probably kept orderly calendars, someone set a boundary and then something inside them straightened.

I mostly wanted to check whether my internet provider could legally recall an email.

My phone vibrated.

I froze.

Not Mathilde.

Liora.

“Are you there?”

Two words.

Very dangerous.

“Yes.”

The three dots appeared.

“Can I stop by for two minutes?”

I looked at the sent email.

Terrible timing.

Which meant it was probably the only timing available in a normal life.

“Yes.”

I didn’t add “sure.”

A small improvement.

Or exhaustion.

She knocked less than a minute later.

When I opened the door, Liora stood on the landing with a sports jacket over her shoulders, hair tied back, bag over one arm.

She seemed held together differently.

As though she had tied something inside herself down to keep everything from flying in different directions.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

She studied my face.

“Did you sleep?”

A very unfair question from someone with clearly visible circles beneath her own eyes.

“A little.”

“Survivor’s answer.”

Her smile began.

Then stopped.

I stepped aside.

“Come in.”

She entered while paying attention to her bag, the rug, the door.

Usually, the studio had to negotiate with her energy.

Now she was careful with everything.

That was worse.

Eugène lifted his head.

“Hi, Eugène.”

He yawned.

“He’s happy to see you too.”

She put her bag beside the door.

Not in the middle.

Another detail that was not enough like her.

Her gaze moved toward the computer.

“Did you answer?”

I waited too long.

“Yes.”

“Mathilde?”

“Yes.”

She turned fully toward me.

“Okay.”

A cautious word.

She waited.

I didn’t have to show her.

It was my email.

My work.

My name.

A beautiful theory.

In reality, the previous day’s argument still occupied enough space that keeping it from her would have felt like closing another door.

“I can show you.”

She hesitated.

With Liora, hesitation looked almost brutal.

“Sure.”

That sure hurt.

I returned to the desk and opened the sent message.

She approached without coming too close.

I left her the screen.

She read.

I looked away.

Very noble.

In reality, I followed her reflection in the dark glass behind the monitor.

Her eyebrows.

Her mouth.

The moment she reached the alternative wording.

The moment she arrived at the final sentence.

Her body tensed.

“You sent it like this?”

“Yes.”

“With the sentence about withdrawing your name.”

“Yes.”

She nodded.

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Before I arrived.”

“Yes.”

She took one step back.

“You could have told me.”

“I’m telling you.”

“Afterward.”

“Yes.”

She gave a brief, humorless laugh.

“I don’t want to repeat yesterday.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then explain it to me.”

I looked at the email.

“It’s written there.”

“No. Explain it to me.”

The distinction touched me.

So I distrusted it.

“The text doesn’t reflect my work. So I said that.”

“And you added that you might withdraw your pieces.”

“Because it’s true.”

She ran one hand over her forehead.

“You just made everything more complicated.”

“It was already complicated.”

“Not like this.”

“No. Before, it was complicated mostly for me.”

She fell silent.

I almost regretted it.

Not entirely.

“I didn’t mean that your problem didn’t matter.”

“I know.”

“You say ‘I know,’ then answer as though I said it anyway.”

I closed my eyes.

She was right.

Again.

A deeply irritating habit.

“Sorry.”

The word came out without preparation.

She looked surprised.

So did I.

Her face loosened slightly.

“I wanted us to talk about it.”

“We talked about it yesterday.”

“We hurt each other yesterday. That isn’t the same thing.”

I looked at the screen.

“I thought after you left.”

“And concluded I was wrong?”

“No. That you were right about part of it.”

She waited.

“I do sometimes protect things by taking them away.”

She didn’t look triumphant.

Thankfully.

“But not this time,” I added.

“Why?”

I felt the sentence arriving before I had decided on it.

“I’m not refusing to be seen. I’m refusing to be mistranslated.”

The silence didn’t slam shut.

It remained between us.

Denser.

Liora looked at me as though trying not to move too quickly.

With her, listening looked like muscular effort.

“I understand,” she said. “I don’t want anyone telling the story of your work for you.”

“But?”

“I’m afraid you might use a real boundary to build an exit.”

It wasn’t an empty accusation.

That was worse.

It was her fear.

“So am I,” I said.

She blinked.

“That’s why I proposed different wording. I want to participate. I want the images there. Just not beneath that sentence.”

I gestured toward the screen.

“Not if someone explains to the wall what we’re supposed to see before anyone even looks.”

She reread the email.

“You could have sent something less definitive.”

“The version with ‘I’m concerned’ and ‘could we discuss it’?”

“It was good.”

“It was correct.”

“That isn’t a flaw.”

“It is if I disappear inside it.”

She looked at me.

“Do you think I wanted you to send it because it made you disappear?”

“No. I think you wanted it sent.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted it to hold.”

The studio went quiet.

Eugène climbed down from his cushion and walked over to Liora.

He sat in front of her.

A furry mediator with no qualifications whatsoever.

She didn’t touch him.

She only pulled her hands farther into her sleeves.

That detail hurt more than expected.

“Hi, you,” she murmured.

“He doesn’t understand the atmosphere.”

“Maybe better than we do.”

“Don’t give him too much credit. He tried to eat a receipt yesterday.”

A tiny smile passed over her face.

We were still capable of letting one second of air into the room.

No more.

“I felt like you acted against what we had said,” she continued.

“We hadn’t said anything specific.”

“No.”

“We argued. Then you left.”

The sentence came out more quietly than expected.

“Did you want me to stay?”

A simple question.

Terrible.

“Yes. But part of me needed you to leave.”

She didn’t move.

“If I had asked you this morning before sending it, I don’t know whether I would still have been able to hear what I wanted to say. I would have heard your fear, my desire not to hurt you, your urgency, my panic. By the end, I might have sent an email that no longer belonged to me.”

I lowered my eyes.

“That’s why.”

She inhaled slowly.

Not enough to become someone else.

Only enough to try.

“I hadn’t understood that.”

My body almost relaxed.

“But it still hurts that you did it without me.”

Oh.

“It wasn’t against you.”

“I know.”

She gave a sad smile.

“See? I can say ‘I know’ too and still not know what to do with it.”

Eugène rubbed against her leg.

She stepped back slightly.

Allergy.

Distance.

Everything seemed to carry an additional meaning.

“I wanted to help you.”

“You did.”

“Not with this.”

“Yes. The argument helped.”

She made a sharp movement.

“Great. So I should continue doing things badly to produce results?”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“No. I know.”

I saw her hold back a sentence.

Knowing someone’s restraints was dangerous.

“You should have waited longer,” she said.

“I’ve been thinking for two days. For me, that almost qualifies as intense physical activity.”

She didn’t laugh.

Okay.

Humor rejected.

Hostile audience.

“I couldn’t keep looking at that sentence without doing anything.”

“You had written a draft.”

“I had manufactured an elegant way not to speak yet.”

She looked at the final line.

“And if Mathilde refuses?”

“Then I’ll withdraw my pieces.”

The words came out steadier than I felt.

Liora closed her eyes.

“There.”

“What?”

“Do you hear how easily you say it?”

I gave a very brief laugh.

“Easily?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.”

Our voices weren’t loud.

At least we had learned that much: shouting wasn’t necessary to damage a room.

“You say it as though you’ve already left.”

“I say it like someone who knows where the door is if they’re asked to become something else in order to remain in the room.”

She went silent.

The sentence hadn’t been prepared.

Maybe too accurate.

Maybe too heavy.

She picked up her bag.

The movement struck me before the words did.

“You’re leaving?”

A stupid question.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

She pulled the strap onto her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving to punish you.”

“I know.”

She gave me a look.

Almost reproachful.

Almost tender too.

Or I was inventing that.

“I’m leaving because I don’t know what else to say without pressing the wrong place.”

The sentence cut through me.

I found nothing.

“Neither do I.”

She walked to the door.

Her hand rested on the handle.

That moment again.

Liora in front of my door.

Me behind her.

Something open that didn’t know whether it should let someone through or hold them back.

She turned around.

“I hope Mathilde agrees.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Aurèl. Really. I don’t want you to lose the exhibition. I only want you not to lose yourself inside it either. And I don’t know how to tell the difference quickly enough yet.”

I remained still.

She had just said something important.

I failed to catch it before it hit the floor.

“Okay.”

A tiny response.

Not false.

“See you, Aurèl.”

“See you, Liora.”

The door closed normally.

That normality felt almost violent.

I remained standing.

The studio was exactly the same.

The table.

The couch.

The desk.

The sent email.

The closed door.

Nothing had changed.

False sentence.

I closed the sent-message window.

Then reopened it.

The email was still there.

I closed it again.

No reply from Mathilde.

Of course.

Normal people did not instantly respond to emails sent at seven in the evening.

I placed my phone facedown on the table.

A highly useful gesture.

Breathing was ordinarily a basic activity.

The human body had been practicing it for years without assistance.

And yet I almost had to think about it.

I breathed in.

Out.

No better.

I looked at the door.

Beyond it, the hallway.

Beyond that, Liora’s apartment.

The wall would begin carrying footsteps again, a voice, perhaps nothing.

I didn’t want to wait.

I couldn’t do anything else.

I turned toward Eugène’s cushion.

Empty.

I didn’t react immediately.

He changed places often.

Couch.

Rug.

Chair.

Forbidden box.

Sink, if he thought I wasn’t looking.

A busy schedule.

“Eugène?”

Nothing.

I looked at the couch.

Not there.

The chair.

Not there.

The rug beside the guitar.

Not there.

The rabbit lifted his head.

He was there.

One fixed point in a room beginning to lose its shape again.

“Eugène?”

My voice changed.

Very slightly.

Enough.

I walked around the couch.

Under the coffee table.

Beside the window.

In the bathroom.

Nothing.

The glass door was closed.

I checked anyway.

Closed.

Locked.

Fine.

So not the balcony.

Under the desk.

Behind the cabinet.

Inside the laundry basket.

Up on the mezzanine.

Nothing.

I came down too quickly and nearly missed the final step.

Fine.

I was going to die before the cat.

Impractical.

I returned to the middle of the room.

The empty cushion had changed in nature.

It was no longer an available space.

It was an absence.

I looked at the door.

Liora had left.

I had opened it.

Eugène had been near her.

Then he had rubbed himself against her leg.

Then...

I couldn’t remember.

I hadn’t been looking.

I had been too busy not asking her to stay.

My stomach tightened.

I opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

Quiet.

Ordinary.

Far too ordinary.

“Eugène?”

No answer.

I returned to the studio, because the human brain liked to check empty places a third time when it began to panic.

Under the table.

The bathroom.

The laundry basket.

The mezzanine.

Nothing.

The silence no longer had anything to do with Liora, Mathilde, or the exhibition.

It had become concrete.

An empty cushion.

A door that had been open a few minutes earlier.

A cat who didn’t answer.

Real silence.

My phone vibrated on the table.

I startled.

Mathilde, perhaps.

Liora, perhaps.

The entire world could wait.

I grabbed my keys.

“Not now,” I whispered.

But it was exactly now.