Silent Intoxication

The tavern was old. Its walls whispered stories of laughter, loss, and longing. Dim lights flickered as men raised their glasses high and drowned their sorrows in wine. The air was thick with smoke, music, and the bittersweet scent of spilled spirits.

But in one quiet corner sat a young man — different from the rest. He came every evening, just like the others, yet never touched a drop. He never spoke, never smiled, and yet… he looked drunk. Not from alcohol, but from something far more potent.

His eyes carried a mysterious intoxication — the kind born of silence, of memories unspoken, and love unshared. Before him lay a table draped with a white cloth, and atop it, always, a fresh bouquet of red roses. Some said he brought them himself. Others whispered that *she* did.

*She* — the barmaid with sapphire eyes, a snow-white neck, flowing black hair, and a waist so delicate, it seemed a soft breeze might sway her. She poured drinks with mechanical grace, ignoring the stares and slurs of drunken men. But sometimes… sometimes she would glance at *him*.

Her gaze held confusion, even irritation. *"Who comes to a tavern and doesn't drink?"* she'd murmur to herself. *"A madman, perhaps."* And yet, every time, she looked. Every time, her gaze lingered.

One evening, like all others, he came and took his usual seat. She noticed — how could she not? But minutes later, when she looked again… the table was empty.

He was gone.

A strange unease tightened around her heart. She hurried over, instinctively, almost against her will. Her hands trembled as she reached the table — and saw something beneath the bouquet.

A letter. And beside it… a wooden token, a silver ring, and a dried rose.

Her breath caught in her throat as she opened the letter.

***“Do you remember when we first met? It was in that garden... You shared a bench with me. Later, we sat among the roses, and I told you your eyes reminded me of the blue blossoms. You smiled… and looked away.***

***Since then, I have come here every day. Not for wine, not for company — but for you.***

***I never found the courage to speak. You served drinks, and I sat in silence. But every glance, every stolen second, I lived in them.***

***You are my intoxication. And today… I must leave.”***

Tears fell from her eyes as she read. How could she not have known? How could she have missed it — the longing in his gaze, the devotion in his silence?

On the back of the letter, he had written:

***“Forgive me if I ever seemed strange or distant. I now realize I should’ve spoken — should’ve reached out. But my silence was never emptiness.***

***It was full of you.***

***Now… start a new life. Let go of confusion. And know this — my love was always yours.”***

He never returned to the tavern. The corner seat remained empty. Yet every evening, a fresh rose found its way to that table. And sometimes, just sometimes, the barmaid would sit there in silence, brushing her fingers against the tablecloth, as if trying to feel his presence.

She never needed wine again. His love… was enough.

In a distant town, under foreign skies, he wrote poems no one ever read. He planted roses in his garden and watched them bloom alone. His soul remained tethered to the tavern, to the girl with sapphire eyes. Though miles apart, their hearts never forgot the silent intoxication they once shared.