I wake up.
My head is splitting, as if a storm is raging inside it — roaring and never stopping for a single moment. Every movement echoes with a sharp, stabbing pain, as if needles pierce deep into my brain.
The last time I felt something like this was far in the past — when I was young, carelessly wandering through bars and drinking all night without limits, not thinking about consequences, as if tomorrow did not exist. But now… Now the dryness in my mouth is not just unpleasant — my mouth feels cracked, the skin on my lips stretches and hurts, and I desperately want to drink water to ease this torturing fire of thirst.
But the worst thing is the sensation in my body. It feels broken and exhausted, as if someone mercilessly beat me and left me lying in this cold, strange room where the walls seem to breathe with an alien atmosphere. Every muscle aches and pulls, and I am afraid to move — because every movement brings a sharp pain that makes me whimper quietly, holding back tears.
How much my poor body hurts — as if thousands of sharp needles pierce every muscle, not giving me a single moment of peace.
Looking around, I realize that I am not in our cozy apartment with Maxim, nor even in the guest room at Elena Dmitrievna's — about which I prefer to stay silent so as not to disturb myself with memories. My grandmother's house has not seen repairs for a long time, its old walls soaked with the past, while here the atmosphere is completely different — a fresh renovation. The room is neat, with new walls and furniture, and the soft twilight from the streetlights gently seeps through the curtains, creating a sense of calm and comfort, but at the same time — a vague detachment.
I carefully try to move my right hand and with relief notice that it obeys me, though weak, unusually cold and trembling. My legs can also move, although every attempt costs effort, and my left hand feels like a foreign object — something heavy lies on it, it is numb, almost senseless, as if detached from me. My heart shrinks from helplessness, but I try not to panic.
The room is half-dark — silence reigns, only the dim glow of lanterns flickers outside the window, casting soft shadows on the walls. I want to cry — from exhaustion, from pain, from not understanding what is happening to me — but I restrain myself, not letting the tears break free.
Taking my left hand with my right, I carefully pull it, afraid to cause myself more pain. As soon as I make this movement, someone stirs nearby, and my heart jumps from fright, pounding so loudly it seems the whole world can hear it.
"Katrin, are you awake?" the most beloved voice in the world sounds — warm, calm, so familiar that it instantly soothes me and makes me feel I am not alone.
"Yes, I am here," I answer barely audibly, as if afraid that my voice will betray my weakness and pain.
"I will turn on the light now."
Maxim carefully gets up and goes to look for the switch, his movements soft, as if he is afraid to disturb me even more. In a moment the room fills with bright light, and I involuntarily squint, irritated by the sharpness after the dimness. My beloved comes up to me and stands in front, casting a shadow over me, as if shielding me from the too-bright light, as if saying without words — I am here, I will support you.
"How are you?" Max asks with worry, his voice trembling with anxiety, every word filled with care and fear of losing me.
"My hand is numb, and I want to drink," I answer, trying not to speak of all problems at once so as not to burden him with my condition.
"Wait, I will bring water."
Max quickly gets to work, his fingers, confident and warm, easily find the bottle in the twilight on the nightstand. The rustle of glass on wood, the soft clink of pouring liquid — every sound seems so meaningful now, so… gentle. He tilts the bottle slowly, as if afraid to spill not only water, but also this fragile silence between us. I watch his hands — large, moving a bit quickly, yet surprisingly soft, almost tender.
And suddenly I feel it — warmth spreading somewhere under my ribs, light as a breath. Safety. So rare, so unexpected. As if someone throws a heavy, rough blanket over my shoulders, and through its coarse fibers warmth seeps in, reaching even my fingertips. And he does not even look at me. Just puts the bottle back. But in that simple gesture there is so much… quiet attention, that my throat tightens unexpectedly. As if he, without a word, says: I am here. Everything will be fine.
And I — believe it.
"If you need, I have straws," he offers with care, as if already knowing it would be easier for me to drink that way.
"I will drink like this."
Taking the glass in my healthy hand, I slowly start drinking water, feeling how the cold liquid, burning my throat, at the same time brings the long-awaited relief and returns me a little to life. The glass in my hands suddenly becomes not just water in a glass — but something like an anchor that does not let me drift back into anxious thoughts. At that moment, a small spark of hope is born inside me — that I can cope, that someone is near, who will not leave me alone.
My left hand finally comes back to life. Just a few minutes ago it was foreign — numb, as if cut off from my body, with hundreds of tiny needles running under the skin. Every movement caused unpleasant tingling, as if electricity were running through the nerves, and I winced, trying to stretch the stiff muscles. But now, thank God, it is gone. The fingers obey again, the skin feels warmth and the texture of everything I touch, and the familiar strength returns to the palm.
I slowly clench my fist, feeling the blood flow freely through the vessels, filling the hand with living warmth. Relief spreads through my body — finally I can forget about this annoying discomfort.
"Where am I?" I ask him, my voice quiet and trembling, as if I am afraid to hear an answer that will change everything. My heart beats unevenly, my throat is dry, and my eyes fill with tears, because every word can become the beginning of a new reality that I am afraid to accept.
"In the hospital," he says, without raising his eyes.
His gaze is fixed on the floor, and in that refusal to meet mine there is so much pain and doubt that my heart tightens with anxiety. I feel a chill running down my spine, and inside me a silent scream sounds — why is he so afraid to look at me? What is he hiding?
"Maxim, what is it? How did I end up here?" I beg him for at least a spark of truth, my voice shaking, and inside my chest an inexplicable, chilling fear grows — I do not understand his behavior, and it gives birth to horror before the unknown. It seems the emptiness around is ringing, where every moment stretches into infinity, and fear slowly, like a shadow, wraps around me.
My beloved comes closer silently, as if afraid to scare away the invisible thread trembling between us — thin as a spiderweb, stretched to the limit. The edge of the bed sinks slightly under his weight, and I feel the mattress shift almost imperceptibly, as if even the furniture holds its breath, waiting for what will happen next. His fingers, warm and so familiar, slide over my hand with such care, as if he is afraid to leave a mark.
And then — above me, he unbuttons his shirt with one hand, a whisper of fabric, and suddenly… his skin. Hot, alive, slightly damp from nervousness. He presses my palm to his chest, and under my fingers, I feel the muffled, uneven pounding of his heart. It beats so loudly, so desperately, as if it is trying to break free, so I can hear its silent cry: "I am afraid too. I do not know what will happen either. But we are together."
And in this touch there is everything: his anxiety, hidden under a layer of feigned firmness, the tenderness he does not dare to express in words, and that quiet, almost childlike hope that my presence warms him the same way his warms me. We sit like two travelers on the edge of a cliff, holding hands not to keep each other from falling, but so that, if we fall — then together.
The silence around us becomes thicker, heavier, filled with unspoken words. But they are not needed. Because his heart beneath my palm speaks louder than any phrase.
"Can we be honest with each other?" he suddenly asks. It seems to me that time freezes, and only these words become the thread leading us to the truth, no matter how frightening it may be.
"I have always been honest with you. Do you really think I am hiding something from you?"
Fear squeezes my throat with an icy grip, and every word comes with difficulty — as if I am trying to speak through water. My voice trembles, betraying the inner shaking, and in my chest something heavy and hot beats, as if my heart is about to burst from tension.
"He will not believe me. He will think I am lying. He will turn away and leave — and it will be forever." The thoughts rush about like frightened birds, each clawing at my mind. "Now he will sigh, turn away, and that cold detachment will appear in his eyes — the very one after which nothing can be fixed." I catch his gaze, trying to read at least something in his expression, but my own fear covers everything like a thick fog. My fingers involuntarily clutch the edge of the blanket, as if it could somehow keep him near. "Please, do not leave. Please, believe me. Please…" — but the words stay only in my head, because saying them aloud would mean admitting that he really might do it. And I am not ready even for the thought of that. Somewhere deep inside, a hope flickers that he will see — see the horror in my eyes, the trembling in my hands, the unnatural stiffness in my shoulders — and understand. Understand that I am afraid. Understand that this is important to me. Understand that… I need him.
But if he does not understand?
Then there will be only emptiness. And silence. And the click of the door, sounding like a sentence. I feel everything inside me tighten, as if the air is leaving my lungs, and this moment becomes the most frightening trial of our closeness.
"Then why did you not say you have problems with your heart?" — his question strikes unexpectedly, like a blow I cannot foresee. It sounds not just as words — it is reproach, pain, and fear in one. I feel vulnerable, like a little girl accused of hiding something for the first time.
"I did not lie, I just did not want to worry you," I try to explain, my voice weakening but filled with truth. "I had pain during pregnancy, but then it went away. Now because of…" I stop, not knowing how to say it without blaming him, without causing pain. My heart beats faster, my throat tightens, and tears well up in my eyes again.
"Because of me and how I treated you, or rather tormented you. I understand everything," he presses my hand even tighter to his chest, and in his words there is repentance and deep tenderness. This confession reaches straight into my heart, melting the ice of mistrust and fear, giving hope for forgiveness and understanding.
"After we came back together again, I had no pain. But I…" my memories, like a curtain, begin to lift. I remember everything that happened before I lost consciousness. "Alice and I were talking. She spoke about our past. I do not know why, but my heart started hurting again. I went to look for you, called you. Then I saw you, and after that I remember nothing," I tell him, trying to put into words all I felt while he was not near. In those words, my vulnerability, fear, and love intertwine in a quiet prayer that everything will be alright.
"You fainted before my eyes. We called an ambulance, and they took you here," he fills in what I do not know while being unconscious. His voice is soft, but it carries the same pain and helplessness that I feel. "Can I lie down next to you?" Maxim asks, and in that question there is so much tenderness and need. In his eyes, a spark burns — the desire to be close, to protect, to hold me and not let go.
"Yes, of course," I answer. In this simple word lies the full depth of my feelings — acceptance, trust, and the desire to be together no matter what.