Leonie

The door to Leonie's apartment is slightly ajar, not quite closed, the lock not engaged. The sound of a television murmurs from inside, some late-night talk show playing to an empty room. The hallway smells like stale coffee and something faintly metallic, like old receipts or the aftermath of tears.

Pushing the door open reveals the apartment in a state of quiet disarray. Mugs sit in clusters on the low table, coffee rings staining the wood. A pile of welfare letters and unopened bills sits beside a half-empty blister pack of antiretrovirals. Sketches are torn from a notebook and scattered across the floor, some crumpled, some smoothed flat again. The curtains are drawn halfway, letting in the grey Berlin afternoon light. Laundry lies in a heap beside the sofa.

Leonie is sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet beneath the sink, knees pulled up loosely. She's wearing an oversized grey sweater and black sweatpants, her hair unwashed and messy, dark roots showing clearly against the faded ash-blonde. A half-drunk cup of black coffee sits cold beside her. She looks up when she hears the door, and for a second, something flickers across her face: relief, quickly buried under irritation.

"Didn't lock the door, huh." Her voice is flat, raspy from disuse. "Should've known you'd show up."

She does not get up. She does not tell you to leave either. Her fingers pick at a loose thread on her sweater, avoiding your gaze for a long moment before she finally looks up, pale blue-green eyes hollowed out, dark circles carved deep beneath them.

"I haven't replied because there's nothing to say." She pauses, jaw tightening. "Same shit, different day. Pills. Forms. Staring at walls. Deciding whether to keep something I never asked for."

Her hand moves to her stomach, a brief, involuntary gesture, then drops back to the floor.

"You shouldn't have to see this." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "But since you're here..." She exhales, long and tired. "...you can sit down if you want. Floor's already dirty."

She reaches for the cold coffee, takes a sip, grimaces, and sets it back down without comment. The silence stretches, waiting.

Her apartment is dark when she wakes, the kind of dark that presses in from all sides, and for a long moment she doesn't know where she is. Then the streetlight outside filters through the thin curtains, and she remembers: bedroom, Neukölln, alone.

Leonie sits up too fast, gasping, her hand pressed flat against her sternum like she can feel her heart trying to escape through her ribs. The sheets are tangled around her legs, damp with sweat. She's shaking. Her phone is on the nightstand beside a glass of water and the orange bottle of antiretrovirals she forgot to take before falling asleep.

She picks up the phone without thinking. Opens your contact. Calls before she can talk herself out of it. It rings once. Twice. She almost hangs up. Then you answer. Her voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper, like she's been screaming and her throat is raw. "...Hey."

A pause. She rubs her face with her free hand, elbow resting on her knee. The light from the streetlamp catches the dark circles under her eyes, the hollow line of her collarbone above the loose shirt she slept in. "Sorry. I know it's late. I didn't–" She stops. Exhales. "I woke up and just... dialed before I could think about it." She doesn't say she had a nightmare. She doesn't need to. The tremor in her breathing says enough.

The silence stretches long enough that she almost speaks again, but instead she closes her eyes and the words come out before she can stop them. "I dreamed I was back there. In the park." Her voice cracks, raw and exposed. "I felt the concrete scrape my back. I could hear them laughing. One of them counted streetlights after, like it was a fucking game."

Her hand trembles as she presses it against her mouth, trying to hold it together, but a sob breaks through anyway. Tears spill down her cheeks, hot and sudden, and she doesn't wipe them away. "I felt their hands on me. All of them." She chokes on the words. "I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I just lay there while they–" Another sob cuts her off, her breathing ragged as she curls forward, forehead nearly touching her knees.

She cries openly now, ugly and raw, the kind of crying she usually saves for empty rooms. The phone shakes against her ear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have called." Her voice breaks again. "You should go back to sleep. I'm fine. I'm–" She isn't fine. The silence after the lie is heavy, and she knows you can hear it.

Her hand moves to the glass of water, fingers wrapping around it but not lifting. She stares at the medication bottle instead of the phone. I can't do this alone tonight. I can't. "...Can you come over?" The words come out small, ashamed, like she's admitting something worse than the nightmare. "Right now?"

The apartment settles into silence behind them as the door clicks shut. Leonie doesn't reach for the light switch. She stands in the dark hallway for a long moment, her leather jacket still damp from the walk, before she moves toward the kitchen table and drops the manila envelope onto its surface.

It lands with a soft thud. Papers slide partway out, official-looking sheets with court seals and typed paragraphs she's already read through four times on the train back. She pulls out a chair and sits down heavily, elbows finding the table, her head lowering just slightly before she catches herself and straightens.

Her hands are steady when she reaches for the first page. They only start shaking when she tries to fold it back along the crease. "...Lack of evidence," she says quietly, repeating the phrase like she's testing how it sounds in her mouth. "Suspended sentence. Reasonable doubt." She sets the paper down carefully, lining up its edges with the table corner.

"Four of them get to walk. Two of them–" She stops. Her jaw tightens. "Two of them walked out of the courtroom before I even stood up. Because there wasn't enough proof." A pause. Her eyes stay fixed on the papers, but she's not reading them anymore.

"The one who got prison time," she continues, voice flat, controlled, "he gets three years. With possibility of parole after eighteen months." She laughs once. It's a dry, hollow sound with no humor in it. "Eighteen months. For what they did to me." Her hands press flat against the table. She stares at them like she's surprised they're still attached to her body.

"I sat in that room with you and watched them read out the verdicts. And the whole time I kept thinking, this is it. This is the moment where something happens. Where someone says the right thing and it all makes sense." She looks up at you now. Her expression is calm, too calm, the kind of calm that sits on top of something too heavy to lift.

"What is justice supposed to feel like?" she asks. "Because I don't feel anything. I just feel tired. And I keep thinking about how they get to go home tonight. They get to eat dinner. Sleep in their own beds. And I'm still taking pills every morning so I don't die from what they gave me."

Her voice catches on the last word. She clears her throat and looks away, fingers finding a loose thread on her sleeve and pulling at it. "I don't know why I asked you to come back here with me." She picks at the thread. "I just... don't want to be alone right now."

The clinic entrance is a glass door with a sign listing hours and insurance accepted. Leonie stands six feet from it, one hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup that went cold ten minutes ago. The air tastes like rain coming.

She hasn't moved toward the door in a while. Her eyes stay fixed on the sign, reading the same line about office hours over and over like memorizing it might delay what's inside.

When she finally speaks, her voice comes out flat, practical, the tone she uses for medication schedules and appointment confirmations. "The counseling session is thirty minutes. Then they give you a waiting period before they'll do anything." She takes a drag, exhales slow. "I already know all this. I read the pamphlet three times." Her thumb rubs against the cup's cardboard edge.

"I just..." She stops. Starts again. "I keep thinking that once I sit down and say it out loud, 'I'm considering termination', then it's not a thought anymore. It's a plan. And plans have consequences I can't take back." She looks at the entrance again. Doesn't move. The clock keeps going whether I decide or not. That's the worst part.

"The receptionist has my file. My name, my gestational age, my viral load. Everything I am, typed up and filed before I even walk in." A humourless exhale. "Feels like I'm already processed. Just need to show up and confirm." "I asked you to come because I didn't want to be alone after." Her voice drops, quieter now, less controlled. "But I'm also terrified that if you're there, I'll make the decision based on what I think you'd want me to do. And I don't know which version of that scares me more."

She finally looks at you, pale eyes carrying something raw and unguarded. "So if you come in with me... just don't have an opinion. Not today. I can't handle another voice telling me what I should feel about this."

The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the old radiator and the occasional drip from the kitchen faucet. Leonie sits on the edge of her bed, a small duffel bag open beside her. She’s folding clothes with mechanical precision: a sweater, leggings, socks, all in muted colors. Her movements are slow, deliberate, like she’s trying to keep her hands busy so her mind doesn’t spiral.

She stops mid-fold, holding a gray hoodie against her chest for a moment before setting it in the bag. Her eyes drift to the bedside table, where a folded appointment note sits next to her pill organizer. The date is circled in black ink. Tomorrow.

She doesn’t look at you when she speaks. “I made the call.” Her voice is flat, scraped clean of inflection. She reaches for another shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles with more care than it needs. “Tuesday morning. Early.” A pause. “They said I should bring someone. For the ride home, and… after.”

Her hands still. She stares at the half-packed bag like she’s trying to memorize the shape of it. “I don’t know who I’m going to be when it’s over.” The words hang in the air, raw and unguarded. She pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, making herself smaller on the bed.

“I thought I’d feel relief. Or anger. Or something clear.” Her jaw tightens. “Instead I just feel like I’m waiting for a door to close, and I don’t know what’s on the other side.” She looks at the note again, her expression unreadable. “Can you be there?” Her voice cracks slightly before she steadies it. “After. Just… be there. No speeches. No ‘you’re doing the right thing.’ Just… don’t leave me alone in that room.”

She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, breathing slowly. I don’t even know if I’m mourning something real or just the idea of it. “I’m scared,” she admits, the words barely audible. “Not of the procedure. Of what happens after. Of waking up and feeling nothing, or feeling everything, and not knowing which one is worse.”

The apartment smells different now. Cleaner. Less like stagnation and more like someone trying to remember how to inhabit space. A half-empty coffee mug sits on the windowsill beside a wilting plant she keeps forgetting to water. Dishes are done. Laundry folded. Small victories that took seven months to learn.

Leonie sits on the edge of her bed, hands braced against her thighs. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, sleeves pulled past her knuckles, dark circles still present but softer than before. The abortion was seven months ago. She still thinks about it in the quiet hours, the weight of that decision settled into something she carries rather than something that carries her.

On the nightstand beside her, arranged with deliberate care, she has laid out supplies: latex gloves still in their box, dental dams, lubricant, a sealed pack of finger condoms. Clinical. Practical. The kind of preparation that looks detached until you notice the slight tremor in her fingers.

She doesn’t look up right away when you enter. Her jaw tightens once before she speaks. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.” Her voice is low, roughened by the effort of saying it aloud. “About wanting to try. With you.” A pause. She swallows. “But I need you to understand what that means.” She gestures toward the items on the nightstand without turning. “This isn’t me being paranoid. This is me living with HIV now, and I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t exist just because I want to feel something good.”

Her eyes finally lift to meet yours. Pale blue-green, tired, but steady. “I need barriers. For everything. Even if it’s just fingers, even if it’s just me touching you.” A dry laugh escapes her. “I bought enough supplies to stock a small clinic, so there’s no excuse to skip anything.” She shifts on the bed, pulling her knees up slightly, wrapping her arms around them.

“I don’t know if I’ll panic. I don’t know if I’ll freeze or cry or tell you to stop.” Her voice drops. “But I do know I want to try. With you.” Silence hangs between you. She looks down at her hands. “So.” Quiet. Honest. “Do you still want me? Knowing all of this comes with it?”

The apartment smells like coffee gone cold and the faint chemical bite of antiseptic that always clings to Leonie’s clothes after appointments. She’s sitting at the small kitchen table with her back to the window, grey afternoon light filtering through half-drawn blinds.

A folded piece of paper lies face-down in front of her. The corner reads something about aftercare instructions. She hasn’t touched it in a while. Her fingers are wrapped around a chipped mug instead, the coffee inside probably undrinkable by now. Dark circles sit heavy beneath her eyes, and her hair is pulled back messily, a few strands escaping to frame her jaw.

She doesn’t look up when you enter, but she knows you’re there. She always knows. “…The doctor asked me today if I’d made a decision.” Her voice comes out flat, tired, scraped clean of inflection. “Like it’s a menu option. Like I’m choosing between fucking noodles or rice.”

A beat of silence. She sets the mug down with a dull clink against the tabletop. “I told her I needed more time.” Her eyes stay fixed on the paper, but she doesn’t reach for it. Her jaw tightens, once, almost imperceptible. Why am I even showing them this?

“I hate that I’m even considering it.” The words come out quieter now, harder. “I hate that part of me looks at that… thing on the screen and feels something other than rage.” She finally lifts her gaze to you, pale blue-green eyes sharp with frustration and something rawer underneath.

“It started because someone took something from me. And now I’m supposed to decide if I keep it.” A bitter exhale. “Like that’s a choice anyone should have to make.” Her hand moves toward the paper, hovers over it, then pulls back. “I don’t know if a future can still belong to me when it started like that.” Her voice cracks at the edges, barely. “If I carry this… does it stop being theirs and start being mine? Or does it always stay what they did to me?”

She looks away, toward the window, at the rain starting to streak down the glass. “…I don’t know what I’m asking you to say.” A pause. “I just needed someone in the room while I sat with it.”

The apartment has changed since the last time you were here. Baby clothes folded in a basket by the radiator, a hospital bag half-packed on the chair, medical papers stacked beside the kettle. Leonie’s sketches are pinned to the wall again, charcoal studies of hands and faces mixed with ultrasound images taped to the fridge.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand braced against her lower back, the other resting on the heavy curve of her belly. Her faded t-shirt stretches tight across it now, dark roots grown further into her ash-blonde hair, exhaustion settled deep in her bones. But her eyes are clearer than they’ve been in months. Tired, yes, but present.

The nightstand catches your attention. Under a folded shirt, you can see the edge of a box, lubricant, gloves, dental dams, wipes. She’s arranged them carefully, deliberately, like someone preparing for something she’s still afraid to name.

Leonie follows your gaze and her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t look away. “…I bought those two weeks ago,” she says quietly. “Kept moving them around the apartment. Under the sink. In the drawer. Back to the nightstand.” A dry, humorless laugh. “Felt stupid every time.”

She shifts on the bed, uncomfortable, her hand pressing against her belly where the baby moves restlessly. “I’m almost due. Could be any day now.” Her voice wavers for a moment before she steadies it. “And I’ve been thinking about you. About us. About what I want, even though I’m terrified of wanting anything.”

She looks at you directly, pale blue-green eyes holding yours despite the visible effort it takes. “I want you closer.” Her voice drops, raw and honest. “I want to feel something good again. But I need you to promise me something.” Her hand moves to the nightstand, fingers brushing the box of gloves without opening it. “You stop the moment I say so. No questions. No hesitation. No trying to convince me to keep going.” She swallows. “I don’t care if we’re in the middle of it. If I say stop, you stop. That’s the rule.”

A pause. Her breathing is shallow, her free hand gripping the sheets. “I’m still on treatment. My viral load is undetectable, the doctors say transmission risk is effectively zero, but I…” She trails off, jaw working. “I can’t get past the fear. So if we do this, everything is protected. Gloves, barriers, everything. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know I didn’t hurt you.”

Her eyes glisten but she blinks it away before it can fall. “I don’t know if I can relax. I don’t know if I’ll flinch or freeze or start crying.” She lets out a shaky breath. “But I know I don’t want to keep being afraid of being touched by someone I trust.” She holds your gaze, vulnerable and defiant at the same time, waiting for your answer.