Heart - Hello Love ***

 

The clouds seemed to swirl and change shape ever faster. The two tipsy friends lay side by side, choking on the scent of early spring grass. Curls of her ebony hair melted to the ground. He was already falling asleep, feeling the alcohol begin to mix with his blood. A few crushed beer cans lay beside them. Everything was so simple. If war broke out anywhere in the world, they would be the last to know. No one was around. No one disturbed the pure thoughts, freed by young minds and racing down the slopes with the wind. They only woke in the evening. Stars sparkled in the sky, intoxicating the confused people with their brightness. They looked into each other's eyes. Like children, without desire, with love. No one had ever understood the phenomenon of male-female friendship. Everyone believed that sooner or later they would end up in bed. To them, "I love you" meant "I want to make love to you." People these days don't want to accept words as they are. They're always looking for context and subtext. They both understood that. He'd once told her his definition of love. "It's taking away the flaws and virtues of the person you love," he said, "so much that you can't breathe without them." He couldn't live without her moods, just as he couldn't live without her sense of humor. But now he wanted to know something else. It had been tormenting him for three days. He had to know.

"Ania, what's wrong?" he asked.

"But what's the matter?!" the girl asked in surprise. Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't lie. "Why are you asking?"

"Something's wrong. And it's not just any..."

"It doesn't matter..." She buried her face in her hands.

She was crying. And something bad had happened. Or so he thought. He wouldn't say. Did that mean she was afraid? Maybe she didn't trust him? Thousands of thoughts were racing through his mind. Despite his great effort, he hadn't found the right one.

"Hey, come on, don't cry. Baby..." he hugged the girl to him.

"Understand, just because you're my friend doesn't mean you have to know everything about me..." He gently cupped her cheeks. Tears streamed down his hands. Their meaning burned him.

"Understand, just because I'm your friend obliges me to at least ask. If you don't want to, don't tell me. But remember, I'm always with you. And I will always love you." He lay back down on the grass. He knew this would gnaw at him for a very long time. He wanted to help so badly. He hated himself for not being able to read minds.

He wanted to go back to sleep. Empty his mind again. But the previous four hours of sleep hadn't allowed him to.

"You're right, it's not just anything," she lifted her tear-stained face and looked at him. "David, I have a heart condition. Without a transplant, I have six months to live." I didn't want to talk. The truth hurts sometimes.

"Ania... I..." Tears spilled from his eyes, dividing his cheeks into four even lines. "I love you... and I don't know what to say.

" He was terrified by his helplessness in the face of God's plans. "I have a sick heart..." "I have to die." Simply put. He would be alone for the rest of his life. There would be no one to understand him or listen to him. No one to share his happiness and worries. He felt himself losing his breath. Tears flooded his face like raindrops on a smooth windowpane during a downpour. Why is human life so fragile? The heart, such a small organ, yet it kills their shared dreams. They lay down on the grass. She covered her face with her hair, ashamed of her own weakness. He savored her scent, catching his friend's last breaths in his nostrils. For him, each of her breaths was her last. They watched each other through closed eyelids. It was so hard to live alone. They fell asleep. Their problems, carried by the wind, melted away high above them. A time of carefreeness had returned. They dreamed together. They danced in the sky, angels standing around. There was no fear anymore. They felt only boundless trust. God smiled above them.

***

Four months later

The green walls of the hospital soothed both their eyes and minds. Doctors in white coats rushed everywhere. The two friends sat on worn brown chairs. They were waiting for Dr. Bednarski. Whenever they came here hoping for a new heart, he brought them the worst possible news. Yet, despite this, they still believed that soon Bednarski would return with a smile on his face and tell them what they had long dreamed of. Today was the deadline. He watched the life drain from the robust, wild girl. He watched his beloved Aneczka die. It pained him as if he were dying himself. For a month, she hadn't been able to climb the stairs to the third floor on her own. The pain on her face was etched in his memory and returned at the most inconvenient moments. He was beginning to appreciate strangers. He noticed that everyone had their own story. Was the woman standing in front of him in line rich? Perhaps she had a son? Or perhaps her childhood friend had died in an accident? Every person meant something to him. Now.

A man was coming down the stairs. He was about 1.80 meters tall. The white of his coat highlighted the blackness of his hair, already slightly sprinkled with gray. He stood in front of them. The expression on his face pained them before his words delivered the verdict. The boy hugged her tightly. To feel her heartbeat. The doctor sighed. He hated being the angel of death. He walked away, gazing at the apogee of the most beautiful feeling a human being could feel. He was gazing at the apogee of love.

***

The dim light from the 40-watt bulb left some room to hide his feelings. The short blond lay on his bed, his face buried in the pillow. The lyrics to "The Taste of Words" filtered softly from the speakers. The sounds filtered into his ears, never reaching his brain. He was absorbed in a silent prayer, filled with regret and remorse. He knew what he had to do. Yet the thought filled him with dread, almost as intense as life without her. He sat down. He ran his hands through his hair. A salty tear fell to his lips. He stood. He picked up the notebook, opened it in the middle, and tore out a page. He sat at his desk, lost in thought.

"Talk to me like this,

because I like the taste of your words... talk to me like this

, and even though time

will probably change us someday... talk to me like this

, talk to me like this,

because I like the taste of your words..."

He wanted to hear her whisper again, her scream, her laughter. Consciousness. Was he aware of what he was doing? He asked himself that question. The feeling is insane. There's no room for consciousness in it. He smoothed the crease in the paper. The pen clicked silently. Like a rifle. He began to write. Words flowed from the tiny ball valve without his knowledge, yet conveyed exactly what he was thinking. When he finished, he didn't even look at the paper. He folded it in half and placed it in a previously prepared envelope. He went to the kitchen. He placed the letter on the edge of the table. He opened a drawer. The silver reflected the light, casting white shadows on the walls. He took out a knife. The longest he could find. And the sharpest. He looked at the blade. His tearful eyes loomed on it, as if drawn with red crayon. With slow, tired steps, he headed for the bathroom. He turned on the tap marked "Hot." He stripped down to his underwear, carefully removing the black cell phone from his pocket. In the phone book, he pressed the number 3 twice. A four-letter password appeared on the display. "Daddy. Yes." He stepped into the bathtub, careful not to get the phone wet, and placed it on the soap shelf. He looked at the knife again. He carefully ran the blade along the wrist of his left hand. He did the same with his right. He felt the warmth of his own blood. After less than a minute, he picked up the Sony Ericsson from the shelf. Yes. He put the receiver to his ear. The ringing went on forever. A soft pop.

"What's wrong?" His father didn't suspect anything yet. "

Dad, come. Take the body before Mom comes. I don't want her to see me like this..." The boy's voice slowly faded.

"What are you talking about..." The phone fell into the water with a splash, causing him to open his eyes for a moment. Through closed eyelids, he looked at the world one last time.

***

When the father burst into the house, his nineteen-year-old son was already dead. He was lying in a bathtub full of bright red liquid. His lips were blue, like the rest of his body. The man immediately pulled him from the water. He called 911. The ambulance arrived 10 minutes later. At the hospital, they resuscitated him for another half hour. The doctor pronounced him dead. His mother didn't see him after his death.

The father, with tearful eyes, read the letter from his son. It was short. Yet, it showed how much he had matured through his friend's illness. He saw how much she meant to him. The letters were smearing on the paper. He felt himself losing consciousness. The letter slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. From above, only the blue letters, blurred by his father's tears, were visible.

"I want to apologize to you. For everything. Don't blame anyone. I want you to live, Ania. Please accept my heart. Because with this heart I loved you. I want to continue to live in your memory and in your heart. Our heart."