"You leaving or arriving?" he asked without turning.
The song looped again in her head: On s'en ira. On s'en ira.
Because some tides don't ask permission. And some goodbyes are too quiet for tears — they only need a chill mix, a dark harbor, and the courage to sit on a suitcase until morning. Would you like a (what she finds on the other side), or a different version (more urban, more romantic, more melancholic)? Just tell me the mood.
"Leaving," Lena said.
Just going.
"Same thing sometimes," he replied.
The living room still held the ghost of their arguments. His voice, raised. Her voice, quiet. The way silence became the loudest thing in the room. But that was over now. The "on s'en ira" had finally shifted from maybe to now . Goulam ft Dj Pakx - On S- en Ira -chill mix 202...
At first, she’d laughed. A chill mix? For leaving everything behind? But now, in the salt-wind hour, she understood. It wasn't a party anthem. It was the sound of a decision already made, played at half-speed so your heart could catch up. Three hours earlier, she had locked her apartment for the last time. Not dramatically. She didn't burn photos or leave a letter. She simply placed the keys under the mat — a small cruelty she regretted immediately, then didn't.
The ferry didn’t leave until 6 a.m., but Lena was already on the quay at 2 a.m., sitting on her battered suitcase, watching the harbor water turn black glass under a half-hidden moon.
The fisherman finished his cigarette, stood, nodded at her, and walked away. She wondered if he was a ghost. Or a warning. Or just a man who couldn't sleep, same as her. At 5:48, the ferry horn groaned — low, warm, almost kind. "You leaving or arriving
Inspired by "Goulam ft Dj Pakx – On S'en Ira (chill mix)"
Lena stood up. Her legs had gone numb, but it felt like someone else's body. She rolled her suitcase to the loading ramp, showed her ticket to a sleepy crew member who didn't check her name.
The wind picked up. She pulled out her earphones and played the track again — On s'en ira . The chill mix. The one where the beat doesn't push; it carries. Like water. Like memory without panic. Because some tides don't ask permission
She found a seat by the window, the one facing away from the city.