Ikigai

Iulia Stavre
The terrace, the sunbed, the coffee, the pen, and the journal. The roses, the lavender, the linden tree in bloom, the green grass, the clear blue sky. I gaze into her eyes for the very first time. It is so late, a lingering fear that it might be too late, chokes my still steady heartbeat. I tell her she is perfect just the way she is, ephemeral, nervous, unpredictable, like a scarf fluttering in the wind, like the flowery curtain in front of the open window, like the keys of an out-of-tune piano, like the colours of the painting in which a woman in an ivory lace dress walks barefoot along the shore.
 
 Ana Ludușan
Ilinca jumps from one tree to another, ignoring gravity. Her body is a violin, playing as she prepares lunch, feeds the pigs, gathers sheaves during the harvest, picks apples, dances in the Romanian round dance, works on her PhD, mentors young people, supports those in need, thinks up strategies, volunteers for the community twenty years from now, runs and never stops, until her body collapses: she breaks one leg, then the other, her spine gives way, and she ends up in a wheelchair, but her mind is clear, and she starts to write.
 
 Cristian Palade
He liked stealing. Being a kid, he specialized in pick-pocketing. They caught him a few times, but, as he was quite ambitious, he learned to steal at art level, which allowed him to get away with everything until he came of age. Then he settled on banks. Here too, they caught him a bunch of times, then they lost track of him. Although he was already filthy-rich, he kept on stealing. He did it out of passion. But what a funny thing happened: two months ago he fell in love and settled down. I mean, of course, he stole the lady's heart and settled down afterwards.

 
(Translated by Diana Gabriela Radu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)