“But it is not enough merely to exist,” said the butterfly, “I need freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion.” 

– Hans Christian Andersen –

Across the dining room table, she clutched her phone while he flipped through a stack of old photographs. “Look at this one. I was only five when it was taken and I remember that day perfectly.” Andy slid one of the photographs across the table towards Clara. She studied it, raising only one brow. “Why did they dress you like this and cut your hair so short?” He looked again at the picture. “I don’t really remember caring about the clothes, but I definitely recall hating having my picture taken.” Clara let out a soft noise that sounded like an “aha” as she started scrolling on her phone. “So the aversion to participating and following the simplest societal rules started early, huh? Figures.” She looked up, seeking his eyes across the table. He shrugged, glancing down at the photo again. “This journey through old photos, you couldn’t join me, could you? I’m more like a screen for you to project your dreams than McDreamy for you,” he said. Sometimes, his eyes held a sadness that left her uneasy, yet this time, Clara burst into laughter, as their conversation about his photo tapered off and took its place into the tapestry of unfinished conversations they have always had. 

“McDreamy? That’s more my kind of line.” A mocking tone crept into her voice. “What’s got you so riled up this time? Or are you just projecting your own insecurities again, trying to put me down?”

He made no effort to rein in his temper. Part of him wanted to storm out, slamming the door behind him. But something held him back, an inexplicable sense that he owed her something. An explanation? An apology? He’d never been one to leave debts unsettled.

Clara laughed again, tilting her head back in an unforced motion that exposed her long neck and the scar she usually hid with her hair. He did not think she meant any harm, but sometimes questioned her quick reactions. She never fully understood Andy’s desire to keep certain things private – little secrets she allowed him to have. To him, unanswered questions or vague smiles instead of words were not lies, just a pure absence of information rather than a malicious coverup. “If you don’t provide details about something, you’re lying. Trying to conceal the truth is what makes it a lie.” While she found his logic overly simplistic, she never asked him “where,” “why” or “when.”  She did not have questions because she did not want answers or, rather, she did not want him to feel scrutinized.

Clara knew exactly when she upset him, but she didn’t always understand why. “It will pass,” she thought, turning away. The silence stretching between them became almost suffocating, yet neither seemed willing to break it. Clara’s laughter had faded with her mind wandering elsewhere. Andy stared at the ground. “You know, I’m going to grab some wine. Unless we’re not going to Cristiana’s tonight?” He felt his words leaving his mouth without a trace of annoyance, as he consciously tucked her words into that familiar corner of his soul where her insults had accumulated over the years. She answered with a dismissive wave. “Of course, we’ll do whatever you want.”

Andy left without slamming the door, though the temptation lingered. “You can slam the door, break a plate, punch a wall,” he’d once told Clara, “but the pain still remains.” He wanted to shed the pain yet keep the nervous tension, to draw strength and inspiration for his writing from it. 

“Summer evenings in Bucharest carry a scent I’ve never found elsewhere,” he’d often tell his friends. “Whether it’s the hot, melting asphalt or my love for this city taking physical form, I can’t say.” The hum of people and cars drowned out his footfalls. He stopped at a terrace for a beer and spotted a place to sit. He was not alone. He asked two girls sitting at a long table if he could sit down as well. One gave a dismissive wave akin to Clara’s, seeming utterly unbothered. Andy settled at the opposite end, careful not to intrude on their conversation. He drank his beer like a cup of tea while someone at another table played guitar. The whiny timbre of the voice clashed with both the tune and the combat boots.

The waitress’ voice reminded him that his glass was empty. “Can I get you anything else?” She spoke with warm familiarity. Part of him wanted nothing more than to linger, soaking in the light and life. But a sense of duty made him get up and leave. He walked back trying again to hear his footsteps again. The moment he started looking for his keys in front of the door, he realized he’d returned home without the bottle of wine. He let himself in, knowing Clara wouldn’t ask about it.

They left for Cristiana’s without the wine. She did not blame him; she did not say anything, as he expected. She took the bottle of champagne that they wanted to drink at their tenth wedding anniversary. There was a long time until then, he thought, and  champagne knows how to wait. Clara didn’t though. 

They walked behind each other, listening to their footsteps on the black marble. Clara talked to many acquaintances, even those she didn’t usually talk to at other parties. Andy managed to escape to the garden. Cristiana’s garden reminded him of a small cemetery. “I find cemeteries to be some of the most beautiful parks. They are stories. The long walks on sunny winter days among crosses and tombs full of past life are not at all sinister. They remind you that you are alive.”

He took a deep breath, inhaling the thick scent of roses until another aroma overpowered it. A few steps away, a girl smoked. He didn’t know her but noticed her cold, somewhat sensual beauty. “I’m sorry,” she said, “You’re out enjoying the fresh air, and I’m poisoning you.” Andy smiled, “Don’t worry. I’m Andy Carp, an old high school classmate of Cristiana’s.” The girl continued smoking without replying. He accepted the silence, stopping his chatter. The music and voices from the house grew louder. “I’m Ania, Cristiana’s cousin.” So this was Ania. Andy had heard stories but couldn’t recall specifics. As he sat puzzling over Ania’s reputation, she stubbed out her cigarette and came closer. 

“What’s your story?”

“My stories, you mean. Aren’t we all made up of multiple stories?”

“If they are related to Cristiana, our common friend, happy to hear them. Let me start. I met her at our first job. We were sitting in these cubicles, staring at each other all the time and making jokes. We had a boss who would come and flex his muscles, talking to our male colleague from the next cubicle about his workout at the gym and then asking us if we were eavesdropping and liking what we were hearing. Horribly offensive, of course, and we both left that place soon after, but now it became a story.”

“There you go. Well, I write stories for a living. Is that a story in itself?”

“If you don’t want to reveal much about you, yes, that is,” Cristiana added, shrugging her shoulders. “So what do you do, sit in your room and write all day, and then crash parties to eat and drink at the end of the week?”

“I did not crash it. I was invited.”

“I know, I was kidding. Tell me about one of your writings then.”

He did not really get her sense of humor, but part of him felt the need to continue the conversation. Her eyes was round and dark, and her fingers were so long that every time she talked and made gestures, getting closer to him, he felt she was going to poke him. 

“I write about things people know and things people don’t know. Mostly places actually… Each has its challenges. I don’t cover news, but I am asked to keep an eye on trends, because of the clicks.”

“Still not clear, hope your writing is more clear than that; give me one example, something new and something old.”

This made him mad. She sounded a bit like Clara trying to hurt him for no reason. He wanted badly to leave, but her eyes were on him with such a power that he did not find the courage to leave. 

“I wrote a story about my high school years, for example. It’s an analysis of those years as a teenager under communism, with the indoctrination leading to more-or-less dangerous creativity and teenager rebellion. But the story written on a Romanian site in Romanian becomes an opinion piece. The same story shared to a larger audience in English becomes valuable information.”

“I see. Do you have that story in English? Would love to read it. I have a friend who might like to look at it and place it.” She handed him a little business card. Andy smiled and put it in his back pocket. 

“One day soon. I have to add some finishes touches.”

When he went back inside, Clara was looking for him, wanting to go home and trying to explain to the host why. “It’s a migraine that hasn’t left me for days, ever since I taught a business class to former military personnel. I failed to engage them by not using enough analogies from their world. They found nothing familiar to grasp onto and preferred silence over questions. It was a professional challenge I didn’t recognize at first, resulting in this endless migraine.”

They walked home with the same odd, measured steps as soldiers changing guard at the palace.

***********

The phone rang persistently, shattering the late evening silence. “Andy, it’s Cristiana. I have three theater tickets for tonight but can’t go. Are you interested?” Cristiana’s voice boomed with an incredible volume, so loud that Andy had to hold the phone away from his ear, as if afraid of catching a virus. “I’m home alone; Clara may be back late. I don’t want to ruin your plans. But if you don’t have anyone to give the tickets to, I’d come by myself.” Cristiana yelled something else, and they agreed to meet in front of the theater.

Andy arrived early, as usual. With so many people out front, he had to stand at the top of the stairs to spot Cristiana. He heard the gong, but knew she’d likely be late. Scanning the crowd rushing toward the entrance, he stayed focused. “You’re here!” uttered Andy, puzzled by his own statement as the quiet girl with piercing eyes smiled at him. It was Ania, who’d kept him company in Cristiana’s garden. “I am here! I knew you’d expect me.” Her spontaneous reply broke the awkwardness. He noticed that smile again almost tattooed on her lips. “I have the tickets. But are you alone? Cristiana gave me three.” Andy smiled without immediately answering, searching for the right words. “My wife will be home late, so I allowed myself this little outing.” Ticket in hand, Ania reached into his shirt pocket and placed it there. The 180-degree turn followed, and she headed toward the entrance. Andy remembered that same sudden yet graceful turn from a few nights before. They entered with steps sharing the same rhythm, like tiny drums, but different intensity. His steps were shouting from the top of the stairs. She walked without looking back, as if someone followed them.

She sat down and smiled. “Should I ask if you come here often?”

“I actually do. One of my best friends is an actor, not a very popular actor, but a good actor and also a documentary filmmaker.”

“Oh, documentaries, the non-money makers of the business. But we need more of those.”

“Yes, I thought about making one, but then maybe I should focus more on making money, right?”

“What would the documentary be about, Andy?”

“The ideas are not an issue; the execution is. Well, I am very much preoccupied with how many things have changed in Eastern Europe, yet how people’s mentalities have not. Looking at it from the outside, not the inside. We don’t see it here anymore.”

“So you have an unfinished high school piece and unfinished thoughts about your documentary. You are a true artist caught up in his daily life. I am still waiting for your piece, don’t forget.”

Andy sat staring at the stage for a while before the play began. They acknowledged each other’s presence with occasional glances during the performance. At intermission, she went outside to smoke. He sat reading the program, staring at the empty stage. An incomprehensible feeling of adultery made him avoid the crowded lobby. Blinded by night and thoughts straying beyond his actions, he left before she returned to her seat.

***********

Clara was home when he quietly opened the door, trying to turn the key silently in the lock. “I heard you went to see a play. Great idea! You need to get out more.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. Andy didn’t understand why she’d make such a sarcastic remark – because he was home late or because he went out without her. She looked relaxed and happy, her eyes twinkling feverishly. “Are you feeling alright? I see you’re sitting under two blankets, and it’s hot in here.” Clara pulled the blankets closer, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Good night.” She left, dragging one blanket behind her. The other lay on the couch, an unspoken invitation for Andy to sleep there.

He always understood her subtleties and silent cries, respecting them. He sat on the couch, Clara’s lingering scent warning of another sleepless night. Her aroma neither aroused him nor stirred memories – it simply kept sleep at bay, filling him with anxiety. His eyes opened and closed until night became day. When she prepared to leave, he kept his eyes shut, clinging to the couch, with the blanket over his head. He waited until the door closed and then jumped out of bed. He sat in front of the computer, not moving until evening fell. His hands were numb, but an explosive happiness helped him move on. He finished his article about San Francisco.

The article fulfilled a promise to the editor-in-chief of a local lifestyle magazine, an old friend. Andy had mentioned to him that he had a conversation at a party with someone from San Francisco, which sparked so much research in the following days that he felt like he had actually visited, so he documented everything. He walked the streets, listened to musicians and dropped coins in guitar cases, lounged on Golden Gate Park’s grass, and watched seals at Pier 39. This so-called diary was nearly a documentary of what he thought was an inaccessible world for him, written like Stoker’s Dracula through research alone.

The issue was giving it “the tone that sells.” The requirement was clear. “Polish it up, make us look smarter than the Americans, throw in some dollar amounts. Rich people, rich buildings – give me something to sell to my audience,” his friend instructed. Andy didn’t know how to polish it that way. He knew how to labor over the perfect word, express feelings, or lend stories light or darkness. But a forced tone would kill that initial spark. When needing money, he wrote neutral articles requiring little editing. But this was his first about an unvisited foreign land; a story set in Romania’s mountains may have been safer. He craved change though; his travel tales grew too familiar,  set in the same country – beautiful, but far too traveled by his steps and pen.

The challenge wasn’t the location, but finishing the story itself. He struggled gathering his thoughts in complete stories. Clara often reminded him of that. To her, every one of his articles was not viewed as a literary achievement, but as his ability to finish something. The modest income was, to her, success. She needed to view him as accomplished to love him. He thought not of money or fame, but his elusive idea. Sleepless nights spent reading other people’s books and blending their ideas with his thoughts, writing spontaneous novels in his head without reaching paper, while the Idea refused to appear despite sending countless messenger ideas onward.

***********

Most of the time, he didn’t answer the phone. From his perspective, that was the answering machine’s duty. But many people didn’t leave voicemails, preferring dialogue over a monologue that unnerved them slightly. Clara used to get mad whenever she heard people hanging up instead of leaving messages. Andy understood their reaction, though. “The monologue, like a photograph, fails to capture movement and oratorical verve. It accentuates our verbal mistakes like those awkward smiles in pictures.”

He heard the phone ringing but didn’t move from the window. It was one of his favorite “games.” He’d choose a specific person walking down the street and create an entire story around them. Sometimes he tried including Clara in his game. “I don’t know why we need to talk about others, Andy. Don’t you see how much imagination we need to see our own lives in color?” He’d smile, kissing her while trying to appreciate her pragmatic perspective – the one their relationship needed, he thought. She supported him when he fell into the dream world, detaching from reality. Her words sounded supportive then, but some days he wished she could appreciate the poetry he brought to their relationship. Clara often warned, “Your imaginary world is much stronger than the real one. One day, you won’t be able to separate truth from imagination, and then you’ll become dangerous to yourself.”

The phone rang again. He rushed to answer. This time, he wanted to wake up to reality. “Andy!” Clara’s voice trembled slightly. Oh, how she’d hoped for the answering machine! “Good thing you’re home!” For a moment, he thought he was talking to Clara from years ago, calling in the afternoon just to hear his voice. “I haven’t slept all night, Andy. You probably don’t understand because you can’t descend into the world where we all dare to live.” He was silent. Was that an insult? He still held the phone, listening like a seashell as Clara’s roaring voice brought a salty taste to his lips. “I’d like you to leave, Andy. I’m not chasing you, and I don’t want to be the one leaving. Please, because I know it will do us both good. I have no strength left to watch us drifting further and further apart. It’s better to forget each other, at least therapeutically. Maybe later you’ll find a few words for us from all those words you carry around.”

Andy hung up without answering. He felt nothing and had nothing to say, although he wished he could have defended himself. He didn’t know how because he believed in words and didn’t want to scatter them. “Wasting words is like wasting water in the desert,” he once told Clara. She smiled in disbelief, “That’s not true. You can produce words whenever you want, a bunch that can hurt, love, or fill the silence.” Andy used to cover her mouth with his palm, “Shhh! Words aren’t dead. They take the form of our feelings. Just like time, we can’t bring them back. We are our words. Nothing else shows we’re alive.” She would laugh and push him away, “Our beating hearts and warm bodies kind of do.”

Andy took his old gym duffel, packing just a few changes of clothes. As he left, he made a symbolic gesture – sweeping everything he’d felt and been a part of in that house beneath the doormat. He headed to a hotel where he usually sent out-of-town friends. The owner was an acquaintance who always found him cheap rooms. Once checked in, a flood of happiness washed over him, an inner peace that brought a smile. He spent the day rewriting his article but fell asleep beside his laptop, waking up early in the morning, cold, and hungry. Happiness had turned to fear, but he quickly pushed it aside, realizing the pure freedom underneath.

He powered on his laptop. The San Francisco piece was there, and he stared at it, tormented over the ending. Then he understood – the imaginary trip didn’t want to end because it was unlived. He turned on the radio. “Tell me if you want to see a world outside your window…”

Andy carefully packed a few changes of clothes into his old gym duffel, pausing for a moment as he made a symbolic gesture – sweeping everything he had felt and been a part of in that house beneath the doormat. Taking a few deep breaths, the way his mother used to tell him when he was little to “calm down his nerves,” he made his way out and headed to a hotel where he often put up out-of-town friends, knowing the owner would find him a cheap room.

Once checked in, a flood of happiness washed over Andy, an inner peace that brought a smile to his face. He spent the day rewriting his article, but eventually fell asleep beside his laptop, only to wake up early the next morning, cold and hungry. The initial happiness had given way to a sense of fear, but Andy quickly pushed it aside, realizing the pure freedom that lay beneath.

Powering on his laptop, Andy stared at the San Francisco piece, still tormented over the ending. Then, it dawned on him – the imaginary trip didn’t want to end because it was unlived. Turning on the radio, he listened as the lyrics spoke of a world outside his window. He opened the window. He opened another document and started typing.

“Are you sure your teacher allows you to wear this uniform?” Grandma asked, her voice low and somehow amused as she pushed the pedal of the old Singer sewing machine. The needle darted up and down, shortening the hem and tightening the fit, while she carefully widened the armholes so the dress could drape over a thick belt.

“Yes, it’s fine. Lots of girls wear it like this. As long as I have it on, no one cares,” the girl replied, trying to sound nonchalant. Grandma didn’t press further. Maybe she didn’t want to upset her, or maybe she was living vicariously through these small acts of rebellion. Her own life had little room for such defiance. Grandpa wasn’t an easy man to live with—demanding and sharp-tongued, he always called her back home if she stayed out too long, complaining he was hungry or needed something.

Still, she made excuses to visit her niece whenever she could. She’d grab her purse, apply a quick swipe of lipstick, and head to the bus stop. The ride wasn’t long—just two stops—but for those fleeting minutes, staring out the window at the gray cityscape, she felt a rare sense of freedom. It clung to her until the moment she stepped back into her house, where everything—like the country itself—felt dark, confined, and unyielding. Grandpa wanted his food heated. She always left meals prepared for him, but he always found reasons for her to come back—like heating the food he could have easily heated himself. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was a reflection of many men in the country: rigid, demanding, and unwilling to change, much like the system we lived under. For women, there were very few ways out. As a young man, I didn’t fully understand it—or even notice it—but the real tragedy was that most women didn’t either. In an environment as traditional and closed-off as ours, with only scraps of information trickling in from the West, we lived in a “this is just how it is” kind of world.

I’d see the girl at the bus station every morning. She walked while I took the bus for 30 minutes. In some ways, I thought she was privileged because she did not have to suffer on the crowded bus with the plebeians, but I didn’t know much about her beyond those passing moments. We walked on opposite sidewalks on our way to school. 

My high school had two distinct experiences: the indoor one controlled by the school and the outdoor one controlled by a group of kids who had no choice but to be there—yet chose how to make it their own. In a communist country, creativity was your currency. High school wasn’t just about stressful tests and memorizing facts we’d forget within days. It was about finding cracks in the rigid system and creating spaces where we could be ourselves more. 

I am making this sound more poetic than it really was. The truth is, high school life at the best high school in the country was a mix of rigid control and bursts of rebellion back in the 1980s. Inside the school walls, we had mandatory uniforms that looked like we attended a funeral every day, and a curriculum based on communist ideology, with teachers that supported it out of conviction or out of fear. The dictator’s portrait loomed over us in every classroom as a constant reminder of the system’s grip on our lives. 

During class, girl wore uniforms the “proper” way, but as soon as the bell rang, they adjusted them—hiking them slightly up and cinching them with thick belts hidden in their backpacks. At the same time, they’d swipe on their favorite lipstick—pink, sparkly, and called Margareta Number 2. It was a prized possession, often out of stock at the nearby store. An entire generation of girls wore that same lipstick, paired with identical uniforms: navy blue dresses with white headbands and a cloth patch on their arms displaying the school name and our identification number—the matricola. Unlike other numbers in history stamped permanently on people, ours could be removed. And we certainly did, with passion and hate once we stepped outside school grounds. Both the headbands and matricola patches disappeared into our bags. Walking along the elegant boulevard near our high school with those markings felt out of place. Worse still, they made us vulnerable—anyone could report us by calling the school and giving our number, accusing us of smoking or sneaking into forbidden places like The Spanish Salon, which turned into a bar after dark.

We learned to navigate this system carefully, bending its rules just enough to carve out moments of freedom for ourselves. Mundane acts became small adventures: sneaking off for cake at Hotel Bucharest or pizza at The Spanish Salon, slipping past security guards when they weren’t looking, or sharing cigarettes to feel rebellious—even if only for a fleeting moment.

Most students came from far away because admission to my high school was based solely on merit—it was the best in the country, a distinction we still take pride in today. Even now, decades later, we carry ourselves as if we’re still part of that elite group.

But back then, the truth was unavoidable: our school was deeply segregated by academic ability. Each classroom’s letter—from A to N—was a public declaration of where you stood in the hierarchy. It wasn’t just a high school; it was a reflection of a society that demanded conformity yet couldn’t fully suppress the individuality that thrived right there on its grounds. 

“What are you doing outside the classroom? Did you get kicked out?” I asked even though I knew the answer, hesitating at the door. I was late again, standing there debating whether to go in or not. The humiliation the teacher would put you through for being late sometimes just wasn’t worth it. In a country where everyone seemed to be late, it felt ridiculous. 

My friend was pacing up and down the hallway, his footsteps echoing against the polished floors  and the tall ceilings that amplified every sound on the high school’s grand corridors. The hallways were intimidating in their own right—long and wide, with high arched windows that let in streams of light during the day but felt cold and austere under the flickering fluorescent bulbs. Despite its utilitarian feel during communism, there was a lingering sense of history, of generations who had walked those same halls before us, including our own former king, carrying their own dreams and burdens in a country that now demanded conformity but left room for quiet acts of rebellion.

“Yes,” he replied with a shrug. “He said I needed to get a haircut.”

“Now?”

“I guess so. But I was waiting for you. Let’s just leave.”

The temptation was there. It made sense; I was already late anyway. We walked out, lighting our cigarettes as we stepped onto the cobblestone streets.

“Let’s go to Anda’s,” he said. “She’s home alone. I talked to her last night, and she’s not coming to school.”

We moved quickly, taking long strides on the uneven stones. I was aware of my awkward walk, so I held my cigarette in a way that felt like it balanced me out somehow. Smoking wasn’t just a habit; it was a social ritual, a small act of rebellion, much like the girls’ altered uniforms. With no access to information from outside the country, we didn’t know much about how harmful cigarettes were—or cared, really. After all, this was the same time Chernobyl had happened, and while we hadn’t been told much about the radioactive fallout drifting over Romania, we were already living with its invisible consequences.

Some of those kids would suffer later—from both the cigarettes and the radiation—but back then, living uninformed meant living in the moment. And in a system that controlled nearly every aspect of our lives, those moments of rebellion felt like freedom.

Anda was one of the rebellious girls. Her father had taught at the high school for a time, and when he passed away, he became something of a legend. Her mother worked long hours at the hospital, so Anda was one of us, the kids everybody called “key-around-the-neck” children, independent and resourceful, but never careless. That day, she had decided to skip school and stay home to listen to her vinyl records.

We could hear it as soon as we reached her apartment door: “A million lights are dancing and there you are, a shooting star.”

“Xanadu again,” Cristian said, shaking his head and pressing the doorbell even harder. 

Anda showed up in her slippers and a knitted red dress.

“You are dressed up, are you going out?”

“Ha, this is a dress my mom wore in the 1970s but I wear it indoors when I feel like I could go out, yet I choose not to,” she exampled. Among the rebellious girls at our school, Anda stood out in a different way. Looking back now, I realize she was a feminist, though I didn’t have the words for it at the time. She read voraciously and cared deeply about things most of us didn’t even think about. We weren’t taught to care—caring meant having opinions, and opinions were dangerous. Instead, we were taught to judge those who were different in any way, as judgment kept us in line.

She opened the door wider and let us in. “I desperately want some cafe frappe,” Cristian said as he kissed her on the cheek. “Want to make us some?”

“Cigarettes out in the house,” she said firmly, grabbing his cigarette before he could protest. “I don’t want the place stinking when my mom comes home. Let’s smoke in the kitchen.”

“Prison style?” Cristian teased.

She smiled knowingly. “Sure, prison style.”

Prison style meant closing all the doors and windows until the room filled with so much smoke we could barely see each other. We followed her into the small kitchen and sat around the table covered in glossy vinyl that stuck to your arms if you leaned on it too long. Anda pulled out a jar of Nescafé and sugar from the cupboard and set them down in front of us.

“Here you are, boys. Make your own,” she said with a grin.

“C’mon,” Cristian whined, “you always get it all foamy and delicious.”

“I know,” she replied as she grabbed her mug, “and I’ll make mine that way. You can put in the work for yours.”

Cafe frappe and cigarettes—they were adult things to do at the time, and, of course, teenagers always want to do adult things. But for us, it wasn’t just about pretending to be grown-ups. It was, once again, finding a way we could feel free, even if only for a little while. 

“I have a new Bravo,” Anda said, pulling the magazine off the shelf with her left hand while balancing the cigarette in her right. We both reached for it at the same time, eager to get a look. Bravo magazines, along with our cherished tapes of Western music, were everything to us. They were more than just entertainment—they were a window into a world we could only dream of.

“I love how it smells,” Anda said, pulling the cigarette to her lips as she held the glossy pages in her other hand. “Have you noticed how people coming from Western Europe smell?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “When they open their luggage, there’s that distinct scent. At first, I thought it was perfume, but now I think it’s their laundry detergent. Remember that kid from elementary school who moved to Germany? We went to his grandparents’ house when he came back to visit this summer.”

Anda smirked and smacked the back of my head lightly. “It’s the smell of freedom, dummy,” she said, laughing.

In that smoky kitchen, with our foamy coffee and intense conversations, we created a world where the cigarette haze, while both suffocated and intoxicated us, blurred our sorrows and shielded us from the weight of everything waiting for us outside of those walls.

“We have to air out this kitchen soon. I want to give it a few hours before my mom comes back,” Anda said, starting at the smoke-filled room.

“Your mom doesn’t know you smoke?” I asked, surprised.

“No, dummy, of course she doesn’t,” Anda rolled her eyes. “Although she did find a pack of cigarettes in my bag once. I lied and said it belonged to that girl whose mother works at the school, and she didn’t want to get caught.”

“And she bought it?” Cristian aske, skeptical.

“I think she did, but only because she couldn’t deal with something else like finding out I smoke. My brother hates smoking, so she never had to deal with that before me.” Anda paused and took another sip from her cafe frappe. “Remember when the history teacher said the other day that I’m always his challenge, and I replied that I’m everybody’s challenge? True, right?”

We both laughed, but secretly, Cristian and I were in love with her. Anda had an older brother and seemed far more advanced than the rest of us. She hung out with his friends—guys we couldn’t compete with—and yet, we clung to moments like these: impromptu visits, her sharp words, and the wisdom she seemed to pull from nowhere. Maybe it came from the books she devoured, or maybe it was borrowed from her brother or even our literature teacher, who adored her. She always raised her hand in that class but stayed silent in most others. I often wondered if she wrote anything; eading so much and thinking so deeply usually led to putting pen to paper. But aside from the essays we were forced to write for school, I never saw her writing nor heard of her doing so.

I, on the other hand, wrote every day. Not with the discipline of a journal—I didn’t want to leave anything behind in my room for my parents to find—but mostly fiction. My stories had roots in current events, though they were disguised so well that no one could trace them back to me. Writing was my way of processing a world that didn’t make sense and also, I realized years later, my own form of therapy.

If you were a teenager in a communist country during the 1980s, you’d understand how the lack of access to information shaped an entire generation. Glimpses of Western culture—smuggled magazines, bootlegged music, and whispered stories—were lifelines that helped us imagine something beyond the gray walls of our reality. For some of us, imagining wasn’t enough. We had to create. For me, that meant writing. Anda was always part of my stories. During class, I would write in my notebook some of the things she and the teacher would say. “*****************

“I have to go back. I can’t miss my math class,” I said, standing up and moving towards the door.

“You don’t have to leave with him, Cristian,” Anda replied.

Cristian looked up, grinning. “I certainly won’t. I haven’t finished reading this Bravo. Math can wait.”

“This is a good one,” Anda added. “It had the Bon Jovi poster in it—it’s now on my wall. You should have seen how mad my parents were when they came back from vacation and saw all the posters.”

“They knew about the magazines, though, right?” Cristian asked.

“Of course they did. One of their friends who emigrated is the guy who sends them occasionally. They were furious because I had to make holes in the walls to put them up. They told me to remove them, but then the popcorn wall paint started coming off. Now they can’t repaint the entire room, so they told me to put the posters back to cover the damage. Ha!”

The Bravo magazine, one of the most beloved treasures from the West, lay between us, vibrant and full of life. I left with quick steps down the gray stairs, not really wanting to leave but knowing that flipping through a magazine wouldn’t transport me to the world it came from, a world I often dreamed about. It was a place where boys had all kinds of sneakers, the real ones with three stripes, not the knock-offs with two made in Romanian factories, and where girls had endless lipstick options, far darker than Margareta 2. I believed that when surrounded by so much color and choice, you didn’t need a glossy pink lipstick to brighten your life.