We have dinner together, just like in those first days when everything is new and easy, when every "pass the salt" sounds like "I trust you," and every silence is not emptiness but agreement. Maxim sits across from me, eating, telling me something, and everything about him is so familiar that I can barely breathe. Every word, every breath, I memorize as if engraving it in stone. I watch him so greedily, as if he could disappear at any second. His eyes, his smile — especially that — like the sun, both warming and destroying at the same time. It is his gift and his curse for me. I don't deserve his light. And I know: this is one of the last smiles he will give me. Maybe even the last.
When we go to sleep, he holds me like usual. With a light, almost lazy movement, he pulls me close, burying his nose in my neck. I feel his breathing; it is even, calm, like someone who doesn't need to explain anything. He sleeps beside me, but I can't fall asleep. I listen to the ticking clock, to his heartbeat, to the crackling air from the words I don't dare say.
In the morning, we quietly get ready. Without extra words, but with that light closeness possible only between two souls long intertwined with each other.
We pick out clothes, joke about choosing shoes, debate whether to take an umbrella — ordinary things, but for me, they are like the last frame of an old film when you click the shutter, knowing there won't be any more frames.
The planetarium. Maxim has always dreamed of going there. He says he wants to "show me the stars because I'm his most important star in life." Silly. Sweet. Boyish. But now it's not just a date — it's a goodbye wrapped in a starry package.
Inside the building, it smells of plastic, air conditioning, and some old textbooks. We pay for tickets, take brochures. Walk around the exhibits, laugh, read the descriptions of planets. He tries to impress me with facts about Mars, though I have heard them a hundred times. But I still laugh — because his voice is my favorite sound on this planet. Even when he is talking nonsense.
Then everyone is invited into the cinema hall. It is dark and cool there. We settle into the seats. Max takes my hand. Our fingers intertwine as if in this gesture is our little universe where neither past nor future exists — only this moment, the projection of the solar system, and his palm in mine.
I try to remember everything — how the light from the screen reflects in his eyes, how he leans slightly forward, engrossed in the film, how his hand tenses when Earth appears on the screen. He always loves Earth. Says it is the only place where there are strawberries and me.
After the film, we move to the hall with the panorama of the starry sky.
It is no longer just a hall — it is the cosmos. The black ceiling glitters with points of light, and every moment is filled with timelessness. We lie down on mats. The pillows are soft, warm from another's warmth. He settles next to me. I feel the boy move closer, put his hand on my belly. Gently. Almost innocently. His fingers slide over the fabric as if by accident… but I know it isn't by chance.
At first, the movements are light. Tender, almost soothing. But with every second, they grow deeper, firmer, as if he is trying to get through the fabric, through time, through all that I am hiding from him.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
Stars reflect in his eyes. As if the whole universe gathers in his gaze, and I am drowning in it with no chance to get out.
"Come with me," he says, standing and pulling me by the hand.
We carefully, almost silently, pass by other people. I think he wants to leave… but he drags me into a dark corner of the hall, where the light no longer reaches. There are no stars, no people. Only him and me.
"And what did you want?" I whisper, my heart pounding wildly.
"You," he says, and before I can ask a single question, he kisses me.
The kiss is demanding, hungry, filled with everything we haven't had time to say to each other. I respond. I put everything into it: fear, pain, hope, desire, love. I want to tell him everything — all that I am holding inside. That I am expecting his child. That his mother offered me money to disappear. That I agreed — not for the money, but for him. So he can breathe without me. I want to say that I don't need anything but him. That I love him. So much that I'm ready to leave. But instead of words, there are only lips. Only touches. Our kiss is a scream. Silent but deafening.
And suddenly the lights come on. The panorama ends. Reality strips us bare. He pulls away, looks at me.
"Are you crying?" he asks, concerned but still gentle.
His palm touches my cheek. I don't answer. Can't.
Tears run down my cheeks like streams on glass on a rainy day.
"Why are you crying?"
I open my mouth to speak... but the words get stuck in my chest.
"Because you are my most beautiful goodbye."