Finding Light
by Armine Asryan (Nane Sevunts)
The Armenian winter settled over Yerevan like a heavy blanket, both comforting and suffocating. Julie watched the snow dust from the window of the apartment, a studio she had rented after getting a job as a teacher of literature. She tried to feel at home, but did not. She did not feel at home inside her own skin.
She sipped her coffee, the mug warming her palms as she gazed at Mount Ararat in the distance – the legendary mountain where Noah’s Ark supposedly came to rest after the flood. It seemed otherworldly. Its snow-capped peak rising majestically across the border in Turkey. Armenia claimed it as their own in spirit if not in sovereignty. Julie understood that feeling of disconnect between what is yours and what you’re allowed to claim.
The teaching position at the international school had been a lifeline when she needed it most. After her last episode in the Syunik region – the one that had landed her in the hospital for two weeks –, her therapist had suggested a change of scenery. “Don’t run away,” Dr. Ashot had emphasized, “but consciously choose to place yourself in a new environment.” Julie had scrolled through the international teaching job boards that night and applied to the first position that appealed to her. After many years of isolation in the mountainous regions of Armenia, she finally decided to settle in the capital, Yerevan.
Depression had been Julie’s companion since childhood, though she hadn’t had a name for it then. Growing up with an overcontrolling mother left little room for stability. School had been her sanctuary, books her escape. Her intelligence had saved her, earning her scholarships and a way out. But the darkness always found her eventually, no matter how far she ran.
Her phone buzzed on the windowsill. A text from Armen. She had met him while resting at Komitas park near Yerevan Mall. She liked that park. It gave her a feeling of isolation but security. Armen saw her sitting on a bench and hesitantly started a conversation. They exchanged phone numbers and forgot about each other for a while.
But on that day, things changed. Her phone buzzed on the windowsill. A text from Armen: Coffee at Mirzoyan Library at 2? I have something to show you.
Julie’s lips curved into a small smile. She never thought she would meet the guy again, but the feeling of pleasant curiosity was still there. “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for,” she remembered him quoting Dostoyevsky. And again she felt sharp pain in her head. What is that “something”? Live for what? A sharp struggle started inside her body, but she texted back: “See you there.”
The Mirzoyan Library was housed in an old Soviet-era building that had been transformed into a photography center and café. Armen was already there when she arrived, sitting at a corner table with a book and a cup of steaming tea. “Julie,” he said, standing as she approached. He took her hand and brushed his lips against her cheek, a move that made her heart skip a beat. “You look beautiful today.”
She knew she didn’t. The dark circles under her eyes testified to another night of broken sleep, and her hair was hastily pulled back. But Armen looked at her like he saw something beyond the surface, something she herself couldn’t see. “What did you want to show me?” she asked, settling into the chair across from him. Armen slid a book across the table. “I found this at a market in Vernissage yesterday. It’s a collection of Armenian folk tales translated into English. I thought you might find them useful for your classes.”
Julie touched the worn leather cover with reverence. The gesture was simple but thoughtful, acknowledging her profession and her passion for stories. This was what had drawn her to Armen – his attentiveness, the way he listened when she spoke as if her words mattered.
“Thank you,” she said, genuinely moved. “How is your mom?” she asked.
Armen groaned. He definitely did not want to talk about that. His family was a kind of secret for Julie, and Armen avoided the topic. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture that seemed to indicate discomfort. He worked remotely as a software developer, but there had to be family money involved as well. He lived in a spacious apartment in one of the nicer parts of the city and did not seem to be concerned about costs. Julie did not ask too many questions. Everyone had parts of themselves they kept hidden, and she respected his privacy, as he respected hers.
However, she knew that they somehow shared the same destiny, one where family played a key role.
“Do you have plans for the holidays?” he asked, changing the subject. The Armenian Christmas was approaching – January 6.
“Not really. School is closed for two weeks, so I thought I might explore some of the monasteries outside the city.
“Alone?” Armen frowned slightly.
Julie bristled at his concern. “I’m quite capable of traveling in Armenia by myself.”
“Of course you are.” He reached across the table to touch her hand. “But I have a better idea. Come with me to Lake Sevan. My friend has a cottage there, and it’s beautiful in the winter. We can visit Sevanavank Monastery, and you can have the peace you need to work on your writing.”
Julie had mentioned her abandoned collection of stories to him once, a project she’d started and stopped a dozen times over the years. She was surprised he remembered.
“I don’t know, Armen…”
“Just think about it,” he said. “No pressure. But I would enjoy your company, and I think you might find some inspiration there.”
Later, walking back to her apartment through the snow-covered streets, Julie considered his invitation. She liked Armen, certainly, but intimacy – both physical and emotional – terrified her. Past relationships had all followed the same pattern: initial passion followed by the slow revealing of her darker self, the parts damaged by her childhood and shaped by her depression. Eventually, they all left, exhausted by her moods or frustrated by her withdrawal.
Armen seemed different, more patient and perceptive. But they all seemed different at first.
Later that day, in her apartment, Julie once again picked up her diary. This book was the dark life of Julie and her companion in all her misery. She opened a page and was surprised to read exactly those words.
“I want to be free and I can.” That guy in the Mirzoyan library was suggesting a slice of freedom that she was seeking. She grabbed the phone and texted him: I’m in.
Her feelings were a mixture of excitement and fear – something she had not experienced before. Those short moments of excitement that she experienced now and then were like a light in a long, dark tunnel. She smiled at herself and decided not to avoid the fear this time. She decided to look it right in the eye:
- What are you afraid of?
- What do you mean?
- So often it has given me pain. I don’t believe in anything good.
- Can you touch that pain? Can you smell that pain? Where is that pain? Don’t you understand that it’s in your mind? You created it! Created it for this day – to unlock it and set it free. Don’t you understand that?
Julie’s eyes twitched. Although she saw sense in talking with herself, she was still very confused.
- What should I do? It’s stronger than me.
- Is it?
- I’m afraid of fear.
Julie was exhausted. She wanted to sleep. Her eyes were closing. She knew she would get up after a couple of hours in the middle of the night and continue writing. This was the only thing she wanted to do. Talking with herself was part of her life.
That night she reread the first chapter of her book. It took courage to start composing again. And, yes, she saw herself in the characters and settings:
The cat
A cat ate and slept. Yes, she also sat for many hours in front of the window watching children play in the garden. The cat owner loved the cat, and the cat knew that. She took care of the cat, but the cat wanted to know what it is like to live in the real world. One day she went out of the house never to come back again. She met other street cats who rejected her. She met dogs barking. She was cold in winter and sometimes left without food. But she never regretted that she left the house. The cat was a searcher just like you and me.
The lion
The lion was sad. Someone cut his claws. The lion could not hunt. He was eating grass like cows. But the lion believed his claws would grow again. And they did in fact grow. By the time his new claws had grown, the lion had become accustomed to vegetarian food. He was not a lion anymore. Something had changed.
The lion would sit for hours to welcome the sunrise and say goodbye to the sunset. Now he was a dreamer. He did not want to return to the savage life. He was a lion but a different lion.
Reflection
Serenity pleased her, but something was missing. She filled the space with cigarettes. What was that? It had no name, yet it was very powerful. It would give content to what was happening. It would fill the empty cup with juice. She did not understand where to look. How to get it.
Once upon a time, a guy went out of his house to find he-did-not-know-what in he-did-not-know-where. He searched and searched. He was in many cities and villages. He met many people – rich and poor. He had bad and good days. Sometimes he felt he was so close, but on living a couple of months there he would continue his way. One day he saw a raven on the limb of a tree. “Where are you going?” the raven asked. “I am going to find I-don’t-know-what in I-don’t-know-where.”
“You already found it,” the raven declared.
“How is that?” the guy asked.
“Look in the river, and you will see it.”
The guy went to the river and gazed into the water. In the water was his reflection. He saw himself.
***
The road to Lake Sevan wound through snow-covered mountains, climbing steadily upward. Armen drove competently, handling the hairpin turns with ease, while Armenian music played softly through the car speakers. Julie watched the landscape change through the passenger window, village houses giving way to more rugged terrain.
The cottage turned out to be more substantial than Julie had imagined – a two-story stone house with a view of the frozen lake. Inside, it was rustic but comfortable, with wooden beams across the ceiling and a large fireplace dominating the main room.
“Your friend must be quite successful,” Julie commented, as she explored the space.
“Eduard is an oligarch’s son who prefers painting to politics,” Armen explained, bringing in their bags. “He lets me use this place when he’s in Paris, which is most of the time these days.
They settled in, and Armen built a fire while Julie unpacked her small suitcase in one of the two bedrooms upstairs. She had brought her laptop, intending to use some of the time to work on her short stories, though she doubted she would actually write anything.
That evening, they cooked together, making a simple meal of pasta and salad. Armen opened a bottle of Armenian wine, and they ate by the fireplace, talking easily about books and films.
Armen was laid back, but curious about what was going on inside Julie. He tried to nudge her on the topic of her depression, with Julie resisting. She did not need help or support. That annoyed her. Armen felt that and stopped asking questions.
Later, as they sat side by side on the couch watching the fire die down, Julie felt Armen’s arm go around her shoulders. She tensed momentarily, then allowed herself to relax against him.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
Julie nodded, surprised to find that it was. She turned her face up to his, and when he kissed her, it felt like a question rather than a demand. She answered by leaning in closer, allowing herself to be present in the moment without analyzing or catastrophizing for once.
They slept separately that night, but something had shifted between them. In the morning, Armen made Armenian coffee, strong and sweet, and they planned their day over breakfast.
“I thought we’d visit Sevanavank first,” he said. “It’s not far, and the view of the lake from the monastery is spectacular. The ninth-century monastery sat on what had once been an island before the Soviets partially drained the lake for hydroelectric power. Now connected to the mainland by a peninsula, the two stone churches stood starkly against the winter sky, testaments to centuries of faith and endurance.
Julie stood at the edge of the complex, looking out over the frozen expanse of Lake Sevan. The air was crystal clear at this altitude, the sun reflecting off the ice with blinding intensity. She closed her eyes, feeling the cold wind on her face.
“What are you thinking about?” Armen asked, coming to stand beside her.
“About permanence,” she said. “These churches have stood here for over a thousand years, through invasions and earthquakes and changing empires. It makes my problems seem very small.”
“Small doesn’t mean insignificant,” he countered. “Your experience matters precisely because it is uniquely yours.”
That evening, after a day of exploration and dinner in a small local restaurant where Armen conversed with the owner, they returned to the cottage. The temperature had dropped further, and Julie shivered as they entered the house.
“Go sit by the fire,” Armen told her. “I’ll make us some tea.”
Julie curled up on the couch, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders as she watched Armen move about the kitchen. There was something soothing in his presence, an assuredness that didn’t tip over into arrogance.
When he joined her, handing her a steaming mug of tea laced with honey, she asked, “Why do you care about me?”
Armen did not answer. He just looked into Julie’s eyes. “I see myself in you – me, the strong, successful guy, is as frightened inside as you are. You are my reflection.”
Julie did not know that Armen was vulnerable too. She finally talked about her depression.
“I’ve struggled with depression since I was young. There are good periods and bad ones…” She hesitated, then decided to be fully honest. “I ended up hospitalized after I stopped taking care of myself. Stopped eating, mostly. My body just shut down.”
Armen reached across the space between them, taking her hand. His palm was warm and solid against hers. “Thank you for telling me. I suspected something like that, from things you’ve said.”
“It scares people away,” she admitted. “The unpredictability of it. The way I withdraw when it gets bad.”
“I’m not easily scared,” he said, and the simple statement held no bravado, just quiet confidence.
“Yet here you are,” he pointed out. “Still standing, still teaching, still trying to write your novel. That’s not weakness, Julie.”
Later that night, when they kissed again by the dying embers of the fire, Julie didn’t pull away. When Armen’s hands moved gently under her sweater, she leaned into his touch. And when he whispered, “Stay with me tonight,” she nodded, taking his hand and following him upstairs.
Julie did not know anything. She did not know if her depression would be back. She had Armen and her book. And that was enough for a new beginning. Later that night, she wrote another short story:
Reflection
Serenity pleased her, but something essential was missing from her life. She tried to fill the emptiness with cigarettes, drawing smoke into her lungs as if it might somehow fill the void within. But what was this elusive thing she craved? It had no name, yet its absence felt overwhelming and powerful. She sensed that finding it would give meaning to everything that was happening around her – it would fill her empty cup with the sweetest juice. The trouble was, she had no idea where to begin looking or how to obtain what her soul desperately needed.
Once upon a time, there lived a young man who left the comfort of his home with a peculiar mission: to find he-knew-not-what in he-knew-not-where. Day after day, month after month, he searched with unwavering determination. His journey took him through countless cities and remote villages, across bustling marketplaces and quiet countryside paths. Along the way, he encountered all manner of people – wealthy merchants and humble beggars, wise elders and curious children, each with their own stories to tell.
Some days brought him joy and hope, when a chance conversation or a moment of beauty made him feel he was drawing closer to his mysterious goal. Other days were filled with disappointment and despair, when the path seemed endless and his quest appeared futile. There were times when he felt so certain he had almost grasped what he was seeking that he would linger in a place for weeks or even months, convinced the answer lay just within reach. But inevitably, the feeling would fade, and he would pack his few belongings and continue on his peripatetic way.
One autumn day, as golden leaves danced in the crisp air, he found himself walking along a forest path when he noticed a large, black raven perched on the gnarled branch of an ancient oak tree. The bird’s intelligent eyes seemed to study him with unusual interest.
“Where are you going, traveler?” the raven asked, its voice deep and knowing.
The man paused, surprised but somehow not startled by the bird’s words. “I am searching for something I cannot name, in a place I have never seen,” he replied honestly.
The raven tilted its head thoughtfully. “Ah, but you have already found what you seek.”
“How can that be?” the man asked, his heart quickening with sudden hope. “I have searched everywhere, met everyone, tried everything, yet I still feel empty-handed.”
“Walk to the river just beyond those trees,” the raven instructed, gesturing with one dark wing. “Look into the water, and you will see what you have been seeking all along.”
Intrigued and slightly skeptical, the man made his way to the riverbank. The water ran clear and still, creating a perfect mirror. As he leaned over and gazed into its depths, he saw his own reflection staring back at him. But for the first time in years, he truly saw himself – not just his physical appearance, but his journey, his growth, his experiences, and all the wisdom he had gathered along the way.
In that moment of recognition, he understood. What he had been searching for was not something external to be found, but something internal to be discovered. He had been seeking himself all along.