Maika
Whenever I board a new ship, I’m overcome by the same feeling I had the first time I set foot on deck.
I feel impatience, curiosity… as if I were about to open a door whose destination I don’t know, but which, even so, I long to cross with my whole being.
My heart races, not out of nervousness, but because of that mixture of anticipation and vertigo that accompanies new beginnings on the high seas.
At this time in the afternoon, the sun beats down on the deck, bathing the wood and metal in a warm glow. I always take it as a good sign, a little wink from fate reminding me that, despite everything, things always turn out all right.
I look up and smile. Hugo, from the catering department, approaches with open arms.
“Well, well!” I reply with a hearty laugh. “We meet again?”
“Transmarine can’t live without us, you know that,” he replies, winking at me knowingly.
“That, or maybe no one else is willing to work as many hours in a row as you do.”
He laughs, and we share a quick hug—the kind people give each other when they’ve been on too many voyages together to bother with unnecessary formalities.
“Are you coming aboard as an officer?” he asks as he steps back a little.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Then this cruise is going to be fun.”
“They always are with me,” I say with conviction.
And I mean that completely seriously. For me, every voyage has something special, almost magical.
That energy begins even before the passengers come on board.
It’s that moment suspended in time when the ship hasn’t yet become a stage filled with other people’s expectations.
It still belongs only to us, the crew, who know what it truly sounds like from the inside, with all its secrets and its own rhythms.
All of that is part of the long nights, the shared laughter, and the little problems that arise and are solved as a team.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“We’ll see each other around,” he replies.
I make my way deeper into the ship, greeting more familiar faces: Carmen, from reception, who gives me a warm smile and quickly asks how I’m doing; Pavel, from maintenance, who waves from a distance while giving instructions to someone; and a new housekeeper who watches me curiously because she doesn’t know who I am yet, though she senses she’ll find out soon.
The entertainment department has that effect.
When you’re part of this department, it’s impossible to go unnoticed, and I’ve never wanted to be invisible.
I never have been. I like connecting with people, moving among them, making things work, and ensuring the passengers take home an unforgettable memory.
Although with Helen around, things feel a little more tense.
Just thinking about her makes my stomach clench in a strange way, as if an invisible hand were squeezing it.
After our encounter, I took a few seconds to calm the treacherous heat rising up my neck.
I don’t know why I imagined that after so many years, the encounter would be easy.
But it wasn’t; it was worse. Or better. I’m still not quite sure.
Her presence on the ship not only surprised me, but once our eyes met, the whole world froze.
She didn’t know we’d be sharing this voyage, and the surprise—followed immediately by that tension—made me realize she’s still the same.
Although I didn’t remember her being that attractive, to be honest.
I press my lips together tightly and decide to go back inside.
The main corridor of the crew quarters smells of industrial detergent and the metal that never leaves us.
It’s a familiar smell, almost domestic, as if the entire ship were taking a deep breath before filling with life, with stories… “And encounters in the shadows.”
I press my lips together tightly. “No. I’m not going to think about that. I mustn’t. It’s unprofessional, it’s unwise, and it’s certainly not prudent.” Yet my mind isn’t having any of it; it rebels, and memories of the past flood me with painful clarity.
Markus, my best friend on land, was right when he told me things wouldn’t be easy, that seeing her would stir everything up, and that Helen would reduce our story to a wall as frozen as the iceberg that caused the Titanic to sink.
Though I’m not surprised, because what happened in that control room wasn’t easy for either of us.
· · ·
Three years ago.
After the chaos that broke out on the ship, Helen and I were summoned to a meeting.
I was sitting at a long table, my hands resting on my thighs to hide the fact that they were trembling.
There were too many people, too many open folders, and a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Helen was to my right, sitting upright, serious, self-assured, with that posture that seemed to say that even if the whole world were to collapse, she would keep holding it up without a problem.
Her presence, wherever she went, filled any space, but that day it did so in an overwhelming way.
On the table lay reports, plans, schedules, and, above all, the incident report. My mistake was highlighted in red. That mistake I made by helping a colleague who wasn’t feeling well, that mistake I made by improvising a solution under so much pressure.
“We need to understand why the access flow was modified without the proper security authorization,” said one of the managers.
I remember him being angry, very angry.
Helen then opened her folder and placed a personal report on the desk with the date and time of what had specifically been agreed upon.
“As you can see there, we had no knowledge of what happened,” she replied confidently, as always.
“According to this record…” the man continued, “the decision came from the event coordination team. And that team consisted of the two of you.”
At that moment, my silence—heavy and cowardly—filled the room.
Helen barely turned toward me, as if she fully trusted that I would speak up, defend both of us, explain why I acted the way I did with the best of intentions to avoid a bigger disaster…
but with the misfortune of causing something worse.
Her green eyes searched for mine for what felt like an eternity, conveying the trust she had placed in me—a trust she had somehow earned after we’d slept together more than two or three times.
I opened my mouth, but the words refused to come out.
Not because I didn’t want to fix it, but because fear paralyzed me.
At that moment, publicly admitting that I’d improvised a quick fix meant taking on direct responsibility that could leave me out on the street.
And I couldn’t let that happen, not when I depended on that money to keep paying the expensive bills for my grandmother’s nursing home—the woman to whom I owed my life.
So I kept quiet and became a cowardly, despicable person.
Helen knew in that moment that I had abandoned her to her fate, and she looked straight ahead, barely affected by my decision.
“I repeat that the decisions made by the security team were the right ones.”
“If that’s the case, we’ll have to review every single decision that was made, step by step,” added another superior in a definitive tone. “We can’t allow mistakes like this. Not with a ship full of thousands of people.”
I remained silent, slumped in my seat, leaving behind the one person I should never have abandoned—the one I admired and with whom I had found a real connection.
· · ·
“What an idiot,” I muttered to myself angrily.
I shouldn’t have kept quiet. I never should have. Or at least, she deserved an explanation for why I did it. And now Helen believes exactly what anyone in her situation would rightly think: that I used her and that, instead of telling the truth, I let it all fall on her shoulders and disappeared.
I walk toward my cabin, swipe my card through the reader, and the door opens. It’s small, tidy, and temporary, like all the cabins I’ve had over the years.
I sit down for a moment. Just one, because if I stay longer than necessary within these walls, I might start overthinking things, and thinking has never been my strong suit. Work, on the other hand, is something I’m good at. It’s always been my refuge.
It has been ever since I had to start making a living to provide my grandmother with a decent life.
So… I can do this, I’m sure. I can work with Helen like two adults and professionals. We can coordinate, respect each other, and ignore the past. Ignore the present. Ignore what just happened in that hallway and how my body reacted when I saw her.
“Right. Sure.”
I collapse onto the bed and cover my face with my hands, letting out a long, shaky sigh.
Okay. No. It’s not going to be easy at all.
Because Helen is still angry, but not just about that.
Because of the way she looked at me, as if I were a mistake she has no intention of repeating.
And I can’t blame her. In her place, I’d probably feel the same way.
What I can do is be professional down to the last detail and show her that she can trust me now. Even if it’s too late. Even if it might not do any good. Even if she doesn’t want to listen to me or give me a chance to explain.
I sit up and stand decisively. I have to check some schedules, the equipment, the supplies, the welcome lists, the rehearsals, and the sound…
Everything I always do. Everything that keeps me moving and stops me from thinking too much about how that security uniform hugs her hips in a way that shouldn’t affect me after all this time, or how her gaze still has the power to throw me off balance.
I shake my head.
No. I’m not going to think about that. I’m not going to remember that night on deck, or how we argued for half an hour about protocols only to end up fucking in the dark.
I’m not going to remember how I felt in her hands, let alone what her skin tasted like.
I’m not going to remember all the kisses we shared.
Or how the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of us every time we looked at each other.
Okay, okay. I know what you’re thinking.
Yes. It’s going to be complicated. Much more than I want to admit.
Because my body has reacted to Helen as if no time had passed, as if that meeting had never happened, as if there were no painful silences, no mistakes, and no accumulated guilt.
And that’s the worst part of all. I can convince my mind of many things; I can tell myself I’m a professional and that this is just work, but my body refuses to listen.
I step out of the cabin with the folder under my arm and force myself to take several deep breaths. Now it’s time to work, even though deep down I know it will be a constant battle.
And although working with Helen won’t be easy—because she’s still angry with me, and she looks at me as if I were chaos personified—I also know that when I saw her a few minutes ago, standing tall with her folder in hand and that gaze capable of piercing steel, I didn’t just feel guilt.
I felt something that never went away and that, it seems, is still as alive as it was on the very first day.