A STORY ABOUT WHAT'S REALLY HAPPENING HERE

. . .

I

It's astonishing how the general outline of the observed world can differ from its actual vision. One thing we initially consider incredibly fascinating and unique – upon deeper insight into its "history" and structure – completely loses its "value." Although perhaps sometimes this statement becomes utterly absurd. . .

And all these wise—and foolish—sentences I devised while observing from the window of my sister's apartment one summer evening one of Poznań's streets in Wilda – a district considered the poorest in the capital of Greater Poland, but at the same time perhaps the most interesting! Life here was completely different. People didn't buy clothes at designer stores on St. Martin's Day, but instead stocked up on them at a few of the thousands of Wilda "thrift stores." In the mornings, you could often spot homeless people pushing carts full of bottles, or street drunks resting under dilapidated tenement buildings. In the evenings, the streets were bustling with life! In the doorways, menacing-looking youths with cans of beer in their hands, bottles of various liqueurs, or glass pipes were common, but loud music often drifted from the windows of the ancient tenement buildings. Such an image was painted here every day... It completely deviated from the guidebook descriptions of Poznań – a city of business, famous trade fairs, and two crosses commemorating the June events of 1956.

This was my city... but only in the thick books describing its history... The reality was completely different.

It was the beginning of August – an ordinary summer month heralding the end of vacation, and therefore – the return to school. I was afraid of this – I was terribly afraid of my last year – my final exams, and then – depending on the results – the further consequences – the entrance exam to my desired university, or disappointment and the question marks that multiplied with each passing day. Deep down, however, there remained hope that everything would be alright. I had to believe it, because apparently, "faith works miracles" – a wise person had once written this to me on a Christmas card. Although in the area where I lived then, the concept of "faith" was already a long-vanished archaism.

The air was heavy, and the heat prevented even a good night's sleep. Clothes stuck to my body and with each passing moment, they became increasingly soaked with sweat. In the refrigerators at home, cold drinks replaced cold meats and vegetables, giving way only to dairy products :] Everyone was waiting for only one thing – rain or (at least) a few degrees cooler air.

I was sitting by the open window in the attic of a tenement building on Kosińskiego Street in Poznań. This was where my sister, Asia, lived with her family – her husband, Tomek, and their 9-month-old daughter, Klara. Their apartment wasn't large, but it was very cozy and modern. Whenever I was there, the thought crossed my mind: I'd love to have a corner like this someday. It began with a small hallway with pastel green walls and light-colored panels integrated into them. To the right of the hallway was a large wooden wardrobe with white, frosted glass and a ton of things. To the left of the hallway was a shoe rack, always overflowing with thousands of pairs of shoes (my sister's, of course), and right next to it, a little higher up, a small shelf on which a phone rested lightly. The right wall of the hallway was decorated with a dried mistletoe branch and green, clay bells with brown ornaments pinned to it. Behind the ornament was a low, two-piece cabinet, on which sat three narrow, green bottles that served as vases, holding small, dried, yellow flowers. The hallway ended with a wooden door with plastic panes, leading to the bathroom and direct access to the kitchen, small living room, and Clara's room.

I loved this place. In a way, it soothed me—it gave me a sense of inner silence and profound optimism—something I sorely missed at home. . .

Through the half-open kitchen window, I observed the dark sky. "One, two, three, . . . seven. Whoever loves me, whoever thinks of me, may I dream of you today," I repeated the words of the rhyme, gazing at the silver, twinkling stars that scattered around the crescent moon. "I probably won't dream of anything anyway," I thought, moving away from the window. I grabbed the black and silver Discman lying on the kitchen table. I put on my shoes and ran out of the apartment, quickly locking it. A moment later, I was standing in front of the gate of the historic tenement house at 25 Kosińskiego Street. Small "lights" were already flashing brightly in the satin sky, so I quickly headed towards 28 czerwca Street, where the tram stop was. When the number 2 tram arrived, I boarded the steel, yellow-and-blue machine, taking one of the small plastic chairs.

Fragments of Poznań flashed before my eyes – a city I loved and hated at the same time. The tram quickly passed through the stops: Rynek Wildecki, Dolna Wilda, then Półwiejska, and finally Plac Wolności, where I got off. Plac Wolności was my favorite spot in the capital of Greater Poland. You could always see guys on skateboards, rollerblades, and BMXes there, people freestyle dancing, and graffiti artists, of which I was one. I loved this place; it reminded me of the few moments in my life when I so desperately wanted to shout to the whole world, "Stay a while, stay a while!" Those moments were gone forever. . . I'd already forgotten what it was like to be truly happy, to not worry about anything, not to worry, not to regret, not to cry, to have someone by my side who loved me.

I looked at the steps at Empik, already crowded with "teenagers" looking for "potential love interests" among the passing teenagers.

Time flies so quickly, and everything changes so suddenly! Just a few years ago, such "teenagers" would have despised this place, these people – called by the media "elements of hip-hop culture," "hooligans," or "blockers." Today's generation of young people, however, has been dubbed the hip-hop generation, and no one is surprised anymore. It's fun to make menacing faces, wear fashionable clothes, and pretend to be someone else. Ultimately, this is the fault of humanity alone. We have an innate need to pretend so that others see us as better than we really are. It's pure madness! Yes, it's madness that rules this world. It tells us what to pursue, what to say, how to look, and right from the start, everything that's real in humanity disappears. A void remains. Such was the emptiness that crept from within these "little children," unable to see even the tip of their noses and possessing a grandiose opinion of themselves. I felt like crying, aware that I was the one allowing the existence and creation of such individuals—the meaninglessness of their existence, their pathological egotism. Yes, it was my fault! I lived in a world I couldn't change, one that was deteriorating more and more with each passing day, one that was simply dying...

I sat down on one of the white-painted wooden benches lining Freedom Square. The glow of long-extinguished pebbles subtly illuminated the dark streets of the gloomy metropolis. I turned on my Discman, and a moment later, music flowed from small headphones resembling black snails. "Blood, salt, blood, salt, earth. Anger begets pain, just as pain begets anger." I loved this song, although it wasn't very optimistic about the absurd reality, but it was reassuring – it was a kind of "cure for all evil", perspective, it was the truth...

Well, look! Who do I see? - I heard a familiar voice.

"Supas!" I exclaimed, recognizing the outline of a dark figure standing before me. "

Won't you say hello, little girl?" he asked

. "Of course," I said, hugging this mysterious person as tightly as I could. "

I missed you, little girl," Supas whispered, kissing

my cheek. "I miss you too," I nodded, still snuggling into the stranger's T-shirt.

In reality, it was someone I knew very well and who knew me better than I knew myself. Supas, or Wojtek Herbert, was one of Poznań's graffiti artists, a representative of EI CREW, and once – my friend... "

So how are you, little girl?" the boy asked

. "Hmm... a lot has changed, almost everything, actually," I replied. "

But you haven't, have you?" Supas said questioningly. "You still have the Superstars with black laces, the B3 on your butt, and that warm smile..." You even smell the same," he said, resting his head on my shoulder. "

Oh, I've changed, I think I've finally grown up," I whispered. "

Oli, what's with you? It's like the life has drained out of you, I don't recognize you

. You know, sometimes I don't recognize myself, but maybe that's a good thing?

I see you've missed my company this year

. Yes... you don't even know how much. Wojtek, I'm sorry it turned out like that back then, I didn't want to tell you all this..." I whispered. "

I know, girl, I know," the boy replied, smiling pleasantly. "Come on, let's reminisce about old times," Supas said, grabbing my hand and pulling me along .

"What do you mean?" I asked

. "You'll see, and besides, you'll see how I drive. I finally passed my driving test, and my dad went on a business trip, so I have a car until the end of the week."

Hmm... congratulations on finally passing, I can't believe it. You got your ass handed to me?" I joked. "

No, what did you do?" Who do you take me for? I'm an honest boy.

Since when? Heh, heh – I laughed .

Oh, you! – Supas exclaimed, squeezing my hand tighter and tighter

. He's joking. In the face of complete hypocrisy, you're an exception, a true rarity.

Me? And you? – asked the boy. – You were always the person everyone could rely on and was never disappointed, the one who would give the last thing for someone in need.

"What does gingerbread have to do with a windmill? That's not honesty; in today's world, such a concept doesn't even exist, it's just archaic," I whispered, lowering my head. My eyes slowly wandered up the marble stairs leading from Freedom Square to the parking lot just beyond. The stairs didn't really resemble stairs, though, but merely a set of shapes, or rather, contours, with no logical connection. The city wasn't a city anymore. But a geometric figure devoid of any meaning. In an instant, everything suddenly ceased to exist. Only Wojtek and I continued to breathe freely, but the air wasn't the same. It seemed clean and light at that moment, devoid of all toxins and pollutants. As if we were breathing our own lives, our own ideas.

Archaic?! Supas exclaimed, stopping by the silver Fabia. "You must have been brainwashed!!! Or you smoke too much weed. Maybe it's really hard to find some kind of balance and peace in this world, but honesty does exist." It's in every person and in every thing you see every day. The only question is, do you want to see it? said the boy, opening the door of his father's Skoda for me. "Please!" I heard his voice.

"Thank you," I replied. "You're wrong," I thought. If honesty truly existed, people wouldn't have invented politics and poverty. People would simply live, simply exist, instead of killing the last elements of truth with their cynical lies every day.

The silver Skoda Fabia slowly pulled away from the historic, concrete-paved parking lot at Freedom Square. Supas turned on the radio, and a moment later, the dark music of Busta Ryhmes began playing from the speakers. There was a palpable tension in our relationship now, or rather, a conflict of ideas and views. It came from our gazes, which no longer met, but which had managed to clash for only a few minutes. He felt it too.

How long have you had your license? "You really drive well, you always did it masterfully, even when you didn't have a license." I laughed. "

Don't be so hard on me, little one, don't forget I know you," Supas said with a smile. "And I've had my license for two months," he added a moment later . "Passed

on the first try?

" Of course, the boy laughed ironically. "I got it on the third try.

Heh heh. Third time's the charm," I laughed, changing the CD on the black and silver radio, shimmering with blue lights. "

Hey, girl! Leave it, I like Busta Ryhmes!

I know," I said. "But you'll like what's on now, at least you used to," I whispered, pressing the little button with the green triangle. Music began to flow from the speakers: "Do you remember '93, Alfa, Kolorszok, and you were among them..."

Heh heh, haven't you forgotten?" he whispered.

I shook my head.

We passed more images of Poznań. The crowds on the streets slowly subsided, and the city began to "color." The tiny lights of street lamps and shops, huge shopping malls and cinemas shimmered in my eyes. I could feel the wealth and splendor of the bustling metropolis. How it all seemed so different from the outline of Wilda's world. "

Tomorrow is the WWO at Eskulap, did you hear?" the boy asked. "

No, you know, I don't even remember the last time I went to a concert," I replied. "

I remember how we used to dash off to parties every week, you even ran away from home.

" And now? "It used to be different, now it's different," I rhymed. "I didn't have any interest in concerts, or anything really, except school..." And don't ask why, I whispered. "

You know, I talked to your sister after all this mess. She said they accepted you into Monar and you were supposed to have individual tutoring there so they'd pass your year. So I know why..." "

Wojtek, maybe I'll tell you all about it someday, but for now, let's not talk about it, okay..." I whispered, turning my head away. "

Sorry," the boy

replied. "I didn't answer. I didn't feel like reliving it.

"Maybe we'll go to that WWO concert tomorrow, I'll get the tickets, you'll have a bit of fun, right?" the boy asked

. "I don't know..."

"It'll be like before, you'll see, don't let me ask you," Wojtek smiled. "

Okay," I agreed. "But remember, I won't be driving you home," I joked .

"Okay, so tomorrow I'll carry you home in my arms," ​​I heard Supas's voice. "

Hmm..." "With pleasure, heh," I laughed. "

I think it will be my pleasure," the boy replied. "We'll be there soon," he added after a moment. "

Already?" I asked, looking out the small car window. Beyond the window towered large apartment blocks, the so-called concrete jungle. We stopped in the parking lot in front of one of the clusters of such buildings. There were many paths to the World War II Heroes' Estate, but each one resembled the one before it. Dirty sidewalks, trampled lawns, benches marked with markers, and barely visible sandboxes where children, instead of "selling sand cakes," secretly smoked cigarettes. This was the image that emerged here every day.

Late at night, the neighborhood was alive, and, one might say, in full swing. The benches were occupied by menacing-looking boys with bottles or cans of beer in their hands, while the sandboxes were occupied by teenage girls who saw these boys as their ideal "men." Although it resembled the stereotypical life of every Polish teenager living in a large housing estate, this image wasn't a stereotype at all, but a grim reality. In such places, most young people, having their first encounter with alcohol, drugs, glass pipes, and social dysfunction, tasted forbidden fruit for the first time and disrupted the order that had previously reigned within their family community. I was no exception. I used to live in this neighborhood. This is where I met Wojtek and hip-hop culture; this is where my childhood ended. "

We're going to 20," the boy said, dragging me along, just like he had in Freedom Square. "

That's what I thought," I replied with a smile.

A moment later, we were in the staircase of building no. 20. Wojtek pressed the elevator button. We heard the grinding sound of the machine descending. I then remembered how many times the elevator broke down and I had to dash up the stairs to the 10th floor, cursing the place. That day, however, it became a source of positive memories, as I no longer lived there...

We boarded the elevator. Supas pressed the 11th floor. The elevator moved quickly, not stopping on the other floors. On the top floor, there was a cool breath of fresh air. It carried a kind of piercing fear, a sense of danger and evil. Perhaps we felt this because we knew we were doing something illegal and it was simply fear, fear that someone might catch us, or perhaps we were afraid of ourselves... Right next to the elevator was a shabby door "adorned" with a large steel padlock and a metal chain attached to it.

Wojtek pulled a few keys from a lanyard out of his pocket. He chose the smallest one. After a few quick movements of his hand, the chain clanged softly as it hit the opening door. "

Pack up, pack up, but quietly, some security guard recently reported that kids were having a party on the roof," Supas whispered.

"I won't shout," I joked. "

Get in and stop talking so much," the boy said, pushing me forward and closing the steel door behind him.

The room we found ourselves in was narrow and cold. Obscenities carved with keys or signs from local warehouses were not uncommon on the walls. There were only stairs leading upwards, ending in the same shabby door that led directly to the roof of an eleven-story building. I turned the handle. A strong gust of cool air suddenly met my warm cheeks. I felt a shiver run through my body and the soft creak of the door closing behind us. Darkness reigned all around, scattered here and there by city lights, which from that vantage point seemed like droplets in the sea of ​​the metropolis. I stood at the railing, right on the edge of the roof. I looked ahead. I knew this view well; I had once observed it almost every day, but now it seemed completely alien to me... I was standing on the roof of an eleven-story building, wearing a red short-sleeved T-shirt and carrying a yellow bag over my shoulder. My eyes, which until now had been confined to the gardens of my own world, once again saw true reality.

How do you like it? Has anything changed? Wojtek asked, looking at the living city

. Poznań looks the same as when I last saw it from here, I replied, looking at the boy.

This city will probably never change, heh, heh, Supas laughed. "It's supposed to be the capital of Greater Poland, but it's still one big dump!

But wouldn't you want to live somewhere else?" I said.

"No, no..." He nodded. "

This isn't the city, this world doesn't change," I whispered, turning to the dark outlines of the boy.

"Unfortunately, we won't change him." I heard the answer.

"Do you know that every action can change the entire world?"

Piotrek always said that, right?" Wojtek asked

. I nodded. "

Do you want to come back here?" "

I don't know about that," I replied, crossing my arms. "It's getting cold," I whispered, changing the subject.

"I'll give you a sweatshirt," the boy said, handing me a gray sweatshirt with a blue Malita emblem, which until then had been tied lightly around his hips. "

Thank you," I whispered. "

You'll look like you're wearing a dress in it, heh," Wojtek joked. "

Don't you like it, the important thing is that I'll be warm," I replied, sticking my tongue out at the boy. "I can't help it if I'm so short.

Heh, don't worry. You make up for your short height with beauty and...

charm, where do I know that from? Hmm... Don't charm me like that anymore," I smiled. "

Do you remember when you first came here?" Wojtek asked

. "Of course I remember. It was the third day after I moved here, I met... Olgierd in the elevator, and he brought me here." He said: "Baby, you're new here, you need to get to know our roof," I said with a smile.

He, he, he – I heard the boy laugh – He already wanted to turn your head back then.

Hmm . . . already back then – I whispered sadly.

Sory, I shouldn't have mentioned it – Wojtek said, hugging me to him.

Come on – I stammered – It's gone . . .

And I remember the first time you came in here. We were sitting with Koras, Zibi, Dibi, Nitka, and Kuba, smoking weed, and suddenly Olo walks in with some girl. You were so scared, unsure, innocent . . .

Do you remember such details? – I was surprised

. Oh, yes! Even what you were wearing – the boy smiled.

Really? – I asked in disbelief.

Oh yes, you had a white short-sleeved blouse and a short denim skirt, aaaaah! And your hair was so long, tied in a bun. You looked like a mulatto, heh, so dark in light clothes. None of us wondered why Olo brought you here back then, and Nitka was incredibly jealous.

She never really liked me," I said, pulling away from Supas. "

Are you surprised? She was the only girl in our group, she felt like an attractive babe and all, until suddenly you showed up – a beautiful girl, and on top of that, you came with Olgierd," he whispered. "

And she was in love with him," I finished

. "Exactly, but you know, I never liked her. She resembled a Barbie doll, dyed blonde, wallpaper on her face, pink miniskirt, and mom's too-big heels, he, he." Wojtek squealed with laughter. "But she was and still is Zibi's sister, and she's a dude, we've known each other since we were kids," Supas explained. "

Yes, I know, although it always annoyed me when she spouted those stupid things and no one reacted," I said. "I guess nothing's changed?

Nitka went to Germany for a year, she'll be a nanny." She failed her final exams, the old man arranged it for her, it's a good thing she's not here anyway – said the boy.

And what are the guys doing? I haven't seen them since March, I think . They're

alive, heh, heh – I heard the reply – . . . Koro moved to Ogrody, works in services on Dąbrowskiego Street, paints graffiti on commission.

Where did I used to be? – I asked

Niom, with the same guy. Zibi finally finished school and got a job at some new printing house, but he's distancing himself from us, spending more and more time on Kopernika Street with the boys, he got his ass there and forgot about us, the fucking redneck!

Don't talk like that – I whispered – He's a free man, he can do whatever he wants and date whoever he wants, it's his life, his choice . . .

But we've known each other since elementary school, all the shares, parties together. I'd give him the last thing I had if he needed it, and he won't recognize me on the street anytime soon! - the boy exclaimed.

Come on, Wojtek, it's not worth it. . .

Maybe you're right, hmm. . . - he sighed.

"What about Kuba, Dibi?" I asked. "

Kuba wants to start evening classes in September. He worked in the warehouse at Ikea in Franowo for a while, but they fired him because he was always late, as Kuba does. Since the beginning of the summer holidays, he's been staying at home, sometimes helping his uncle, the one who owns restaurants in the Old Market Square, and delivering food. And at Dibi's, everything's the same as before, still working in transport, always with the same girl, always moving forward...

Hmm... things have changed after all. And you? He, he, all I know is that you finally have your license," I laughed. "

Me?" "Well..." I got into English studies," Supas whispered. "

Seriously?" I exclaimed in disbelief

. "

Congratulations, you always dreamed of it," I said, patting the boy on the back

. "Exactly, at least I did manage to do something... I make websites on commission, I distribute leaflets, and sometimes I work for a taxi at my dad's." You know, pick someone up, take them somewhere, and stuff like that. It's not a permanent job, but it's something. Besides, if it works out, I'll get something more secure in September," he confessed. "

Great, I'm glad you managed to get through school at least," I smiled

. "If only I could manage

. I'm sure. You have a passion for it, at least you used to. And what about..." I lowered my head, not finishing the question,

"Olo?" the boy asked

. I nodded.

He was in juvenile detention for three months. Apparently, he stopped using drugs, though I find that hard to believe. When his parents divorced, in May or June, he moved to Warsaw with his mother permanently. I talked to him a few weeks ago, he called me, asking about you...

About me?... Really?" I asked with a trembling voice, turning my back to Wojtek.

"Yes. " He wanted to know how you were: what you were doing, if you'd come home, he even asked what you looked like the last time I saw you – Supas said.

He could have called – I whispered. – I would have told him myself.

I don't know, I won't make excuses for him

. He doesn't expect it from you – I stammered out with difficulty. – Besides, it's a good thing he didn't call. I don't know what I would have done if I heard him again.

Oli, I'm sorry . . . – the boy whispered, wrapping his arms around my shoulders from behind.

Come on, calm down, I asked myself

. Tiny teardrops were welling up in my eyes, and my heart was once again filled with great bitterness, or rather sadness and regret. I felt an inexpressible pain that pulsated like blood in my veins, organs, and above all, my heart . . . This feeling had once accompanied me every day, filling my words, actions, thoughts, every look and gesture. But over time, the pain subsided – it left, leaving behind an all-encompassing emptiness; I simply felt

nothing anymore . . . Until suddenly that feeling came back.

Are you crying? - asked the boy, noticing the tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Sory," I said, turning to Wojtek, "

You have nothing to apologize for. . . "Hey, little one, don't cry anymore!" he whispered, hugging me tightly. "

I can't, Wojtek!!! I just can't," I screamed through my tears. "I love him!!! He hurt me so much, and I still love him!!!

I know, Oli, I know. Don't cry, please . . . " I heard his gentle voice.

I'd like to hate him, but I can't . . . When I think about Olgierd, I . . . " I broke off, wiping my face, " . . . I don't remember all the bad moments, even though there were more of them than the good ones. He changed everything, took away what was good, beautiful, innocent in me . . . and I still love him!!! But you know what's

the worst? That I could have helped him, maybe today would be completely different . . . I wanted to help him, I tried, but I guess I didn't try hard enough – I kept crying,

Oli . . . I heard the boy's voice.

It's my fault! I babbled through my tears.

Stop talking such nonsense!!! Look at me – Supas shouted, holding my shoulders tightly and shaking them. “What's your fault??? This is Olgierd's fault and only Olgierd's. Listen, he started taking drugs, he became addicted to heroin, it was his choice!!!

He'd had enough of it all . . . I whispered.

Hera, this isn't an escape, it's a death sentence. If you get caught up in it, you slowly die. You feel happiness and relief that aren't really there. Those who choose drugs are foolish. If it was their weakness, they have the strength, but above all, the courage to come back. Those who are weak and don't want to enjoy another day simply leave . . . Olgierd is strong, the problem is that he doesn't want to come back.

"You said he was done with drugs," I said, looking at the boy. "

That's what he says, but I don't believe it, and neither do you, right?"

I shook my head.

"But you can't say it was your fault. Olo is an adult, he's 20, after all, he should know what's right and wrong... you can't keep leading him by the hand and burdening yourself with his twists and turns, such a life has no meaning, you won't live for him," he whispered in my ear. "

So why do I feel guilty?" I asked

. "Perhaps it's because you still care about him... But Oli, I don't understand how you can still love him?! He exclaimed, "... he beat you, got you into drugs, or rather forced you into it, treated you, with all due respect, like a rag, and you...

Don't finish... Do you know why I agreed to Monar?" - I asked rhetorically - Because one day I loved Ola more than myself, I could give my life for him, and he chose drugs instead of me . . .

You can't keep going back to what was. It's not easy to forget, I know... but you have to, or you'll go crazy, Wojtek said.

I'd like to be happy again someday, but I don't know if it's possible, I whispered through my tears.

You will be, I promise, little one, you will be, I heard Supas's quiet voice. "Come, let's sit down," he suggested, pointing to a dark corner right by the door leading to the stairwell. "

Okay," I replied indifferently. "

Let's not talk about it anymore, maybe these wounds are too fresh to scratch," Wojtek whispered, brushing my hair away from my face

. I smiled, sitting down against the stained wall of the apartment building.

I remember coming here very early one day, getting a wax at school, it was probably a few days after I met you. I opened the door and saw you standing on the edge, playing the violin. Your eyes were closed, as if you were sleeping. You looked then," the boy sighed, "... "Very happy. I've seen you play many times, but you never did it like you did back then.

The violin was my whole life once. I was supposed to be a famous violinist, but then everything changed," I whispered. "I didn't have the patience, the time, the enthusiasm, the passion. Felix wouldn't forgive me for that... I miss him.

I miss him too, you have no idea how much. I always thought of him as a guy I sometimes skateboarded with, with whom I sometimes paint, but only when he passed away did I realize who he really was to me

. "Kim?" I asked

. "He's beyond description. He was an extraordinary person, on the one hand so scatterbrained and crazy, but on the other a truly clear-headed, talented guy. For him, there were no barriers; he wanted to experience everything, to know everything. He was unrivaled in skateboarding, and in painting, too." I could always count on him: there was some trouble, and he'd stick up for me, I didn't have anything to spend on something, Felix borrowed it, I wanted to talk, and no one had time for me, he always found it . . .

"Yeah . . . " I sighed. "He was a dreamer, an idealist . . . He taught me not to be afraid to believe in something I thought was right, but above all, he taught me courage . . . " I stammered. "

If I had three wishes from a goldfish, one of them I would ask for Felix to come back," Wojtek said, smiling at me.

"I could give all three, just for that one wish," I whispered. "

I know it's so fucking unfair! Such fuckers live and parasitize the fucking poor, steal and make a fool of themselves, and people who should be here just leave!" he exclaimed.

"There's a court for justice, and this is life," I said. "Apparently, that's how it had to be. He's definitely better off up there now. Leukemia has been tormenting him for a long time. He'll finally rest there..." I smiled. "

You're right, Felix is ​​definitely happy now," Supas agreed

. "Though it would certainly be easier for me if he were alive..."

Everything will be fine, you'll see. Tomorrow we'll dash off to a concert, you'll have some fun!" the boy said, kissing my forehead. "Maybe you'll come back to our crew? We could whip something up tomorrow, hmm?

I don't know, Wojtek, I haven't painted in a while, I'm out of practice, I'd need to practice, and besides, I don't know if I want to go back to this..." Painting reminds me of everything that used to be," I whispered. "

Think about it, maybe it's just too fast..."

I closed my eyes. Suddenly, everything seemed much easier; at least some of the question marks disappeared, some of my worries, fear. . . I remembered Felix when he was dying in the hospice. He'd rhymed, "Raise your hands, touch the clouds! Together we can tear down any wall. . . " He was right, damn it! Felix always had. He believed in people—that they were capable of changing things, maybe not so much fixing things—but creating completely different rules, a different reality. . . They could move mountains, walk on water, build pyramids, if only they believed deep down in their own beliefs and knew how to dream. Felix always said that a person could learn anything, that nothing was impossible, only improbable! And I think I finally believed it. I had a new spark beside me, a boy completely different from the stereotypical image of a skater and writer. Wojtek had something special about him – a great sensitivity, tenderness, and understanding – something I had never noticed in him before, and yet it had always been there. He couldn't hate, take revenge, punish, or hurt. There was too much truth and goodness in him – he was simply someone you wanted to listen to, look at, and be with.

That evening, I realized he had become my hope…

I grabbed Supas's hand, whispering in his ear, "Come, I'll show you something!"

We stood on the edge of the roof. Only a steel railing, painted black and yellow stripes, separated us from the black expanse of bad memories and thoughts. "

Close your eyes and spread your arms," ​​I said to Wojtek .

"Okay," I heard in response.

The wind picked up and absentmindedly ruffled my hair. Everything surrounding us suddenly became utterly unreal, as if nothing but us existed. I threw into that hellish abyss all the memories connecting me to a world I didn't want to return to. I was being born again. My eyes, lips, hair, arms, legs were completely different from a few moments before. I was beginning a completely new chapter of my story—a chapter that would never end, one that many would never forget. . .

Herbert once wrote: "Walk upright among those on their knees." At that moment, I began my journey. I was no longer afraid; I said: enough! I, too, will try to change this world, though I know I won't succeed, yet I will take up the fight, just as my cousin taught me. I felt an extraordinary warmth in my heart, as if something had been rekindled—a ray of hope, perhaps faith. I wanted so much to live and fight then – but not for others, this was supposed to be my fight – mine!

I looked at Wojtek and smiled at him, and he smiled back. He agreed! I knew he would agree… to stand with me in this fight.

Wojtek – I whispered,

“Yes?” – I heard his warm voice

. I’m starting to live again… this is what I wanted to show you – my new life…

I didn’t need to say anything more; he knew my thoughts well, he was already a part of me.

II

When I opened my eyes, it was pitch dark. Rays of the rising sun stealthily filtered into the apartment through the large windows of the sloping roof. Birds chirped cheerfully, their daily melody, and the morning breeze gently swayed the branches of the trees outside. Everything was coming to life…

I looked around. My sister’s apartment looked exactly as I’d left it the previous evening.

I was lying on the couch, covered with a blanket. Across from me, in a small armchair, Supas sat with his eyes closed and his mouth open. I looked at him and smiled. I liked watching him... He had something special about him, a great joie de vivre and an unwavering optimism. That warm smile, that resonant voice, that deep gaze from a pair of brown eyes... For the first time, I thought of him not as a friend—an acquaintance—but as a person—a boy—someone very important to me...

I quietly approached the armchair and covered the boy with a blanket. He looked so peaceful and innocent, not at all like the Wojtek I knew, not that restless spirit who could barely sit still. Besides, since last night, the whole world had suddenly seemed completely different. I wasn't breathing the same air that simultaneously kept me alive and slowly killed me every day. The window was no longer a window, and the room was a room. Everything suddenly took on an incredibly spiritual dimension, carrying a certain message. I leaned over the couch frame and pressed the green triangle button on the radio standing next to the brown sofa. A moment later, I heard music:

"The experts in the world are looking at my hands, telling me how to live, so I can conform to the rules. They're applauding, clapping, puppets of fate, saying: listen to us, we have a foolproof method ."

- Mmm.... ehmm... hmmm... - I heard the strange sounds of a "ball" stretching on the armchair. - I don't know if I'm dreaming or if this is really happening, but it's nice to hear something like that to start the day

. - Very optimistic, I said ironically.

- Well, isn't it? - Supas folded his arms, and then, with his eyes closed, seemed to be delivering a kind of grand monologue. - This piece speaks of human individualism, of never giving up and constantly chasing hay, of maintaining one's values ​​– the ideas one believes in. The most important thing is to be yourself, to never copy, to never dance to the tune. Even though it's hard to talk about your own "self" these days, because everyone wants to show off, you can't forget about it...

"Wojtek," I turned to the boy

. "Yes?" he asked.

"Don't you ever think you're also participating in this whole 'today' race?"

"Hmm... you know, when Dibi and Kuba and I got burned once, we debated it for a long time, he he, but you know how it is after a while." He laughed, and I nodded. "But seriously, I'd like to tell you that I don't run, but unfortunately, that's not fucking true, because everyone does. Maybe if we lived in a different climate, in some goddamn Africa or the Amazon, people would escape to the forests and live on roots and herbs. In Poland, though," I burst out laughing.

"You surprise me more and more every moment, you know?" I whispered, getting up from the couch

. "Me? He he. I'm just a regular guy, what's so surprising about me?" "He replied, opening his eyes

. "My answer may be trivial, but... everything!"

Supas didn't answer. He only smiled and then clumsily tried to climb out of the deep armchair.

"Maybe some coffee?" I asked

. "I'd love to, but only...

" "...instant coffee, right?" I finished

. "Yes, remember...?" he said, surprised.

"How could I forget, he he. After every Aesculapius or Blue Note, you always came to me for it

. "Because I'd give my life for the coffee you made," the boy recited poetically, standing right behind me.

"Don't exaggerate, it's just water with caffeine," I replied.

"Oh, your modesty

. Don't charm me like that anymore, or I'll fall for it, he he.

" "And what would happen then?" I felt his breath on my neck.

"Don't ask," I whispered with a smile, looking over my shoulder at the boy. "Take out two mugs, they're in the last cabinet upstairs," I said, deviating from the topic.

"No problem, little one, would you like a large mug, or maybe a cup?" he joked, opening the door of one of the several wooden cabinets hanging in a line from the fridge to the stove.

"Why have you been so cheerful since morning?"

"Is that a bad thing? I'm happy with life, I'm happy to have met you and that we can talk normally again," he replied, lowering his head.

"I'm happy too," I smiled. "And a large mug, please.

" "It's ready," the boy said, placing two blue and yellow dishes on the kitchen counter in front of me. "But you've never had coffee before.

" "A lot's changed, Wojtek, and the coffee too, he he.

" "I never would have thought you'd change your mind.

" "And why is that?" I asked, pouring a teaspoon of black granules into each mug

. "Stubborn like you," Wojtek tried to sound serious

. "What? I'll give you a stubborn one!" I exclaimed, hitting the boy with a kitchen towel. "Stubborn, no! Only Felix told me that, just to spite me, stubborn!" The towel was still swirling above my head (as Wojtek was taller than me). The boy burst out laughing and hugged me tightly. The whole situation must have looked quite comical – him shaking like jelly and me waving angrily a dishcloth over his little head – cuddled up together like two balls of wool in Grandma's basket.

"What's so funny?" I asked angrily

. "You little one!!!" Wojtek knelt on the floor, overcome by a wave of sudden laughter

. "Don't call me 'little one'!!!" I exclaimed with even greater anger, grabbing the blanket lying on Supas's bed.

"And what are you going to do now, he he!" Wojtek spoke through his angry voice. "Will you punish me???

" "If you wanted to know," I said, knocking the boy to the ground and covering him with a blanket

. "Yes, Olimpia! I've always dreamed of it. Oh yes!!!" Wojtek was still laughing.

We rolled on the ground, like children who, after a long and harsh winter, had finally emerged into a dry, green clearing, permeated with a spring breeze and the scent of blooming flowers. I was happy...

At some point, I too fell victim to the woolen blanket, which, in almost a second, caused me to descend from a dominant position in the entire cloth-and-blanket battle to one of lesser privilege.

"So what do you say now?" A pair of gleaming eyes seemed to search the depths of my pupils.

"Nothing!!!" I burst out laughing, simultaneously trying to escape the tight grip of the Supas blanket. "Wojtek, let go of me!!!" I exclaimed

. "Oh no!" Now, my dear, you will be punished.

"Please don't," I squealed with laughter, realizing the absurdity of my situation. "I'm asking for a pardon.

" "Hmm... I have to think about it, you've intrigued me with this pardon," he said, then added quietly. "If only I could use it skillfully, he he."

I kicked my legs and squirmed, trying to extract at least some of my body from under the blanket.

"Supas, this isn't funny anymore!!!" although it was.

"Let's do this: I'll let you go in exchange for three wishes," he suggested.

"What else! I'm not a fortune teller or anything like that, damn it!

" "Oh, you're talking. So maybe you're a medium?" the boy joked

. And at that moment, I couldn't take it anymore. I summoned all the inner strength I had and, like a brave tigress, with a single (but quick and powerful) leg movement, I pushed my opponent away, leaving him now in the victim position. I sat on Supas's stomach, watching his helplessness with joy.

"You know what? It's simply improbable that I – a woman, supposedly the weaker sex, could defeat you – a strong man with balls, he he," I smiled .

"But I let you win, woman!

" "Yes, yes, Wojtek. Just explain it to yourself, he he

." "You nasty monkey!" he shouted at the boy

. "Are you starting again?" I asked.

"How sweet you are when you're angry.

" "You won't get me with compliments, don't even think about it," I whispered, rising from my opponent's body

. "Exactly! If I tried...

" "So what?" I finished.

"You'd be kissing my feet now.

" "Ha, ha, ha, now you've fucked it up, you know..." I burst out laughing.

Supas said nothing. He stood up from the floor, propping himself up with his right hand. He tried to feign anger, though in reality he was smiling to himself.

I heard the loud clang of the electric kettle, which I'd filled with water and plugged in a few minutes earlier. The hot liquid gently dripped into the porcelain dishes, creating a faint puff of warm air above them.

"Coffee for you," I said, placing the mugs on the wooden table right by the window.

"Thank you!" He raised his voice, trying to feign anger.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing at the same time.

"Olimpia, how old are you?" Wojtek started to act.

"18," I replied.

"Exactly. Such fun isn't appropriate for your age anymore," he smiled.

"Well, well, well, who's saying this?" I asked ironically.

"A 21-year-old lunatic, he he." An extraordinary wave of laughter swept over us. "I haven't had fun like this in ages.

" "Neither have I," I whispered, looking out the window. "It's been a long time since I've observed the world so early," I added after a moment.

"Me neither, and yet we're missing out on so much," the boy said, turning to the window. "Now everything seems so peaceful and beautiful. Birds here, a breeze there, but reality is completely different.

" "We can't change that .

" "Unfortunately," he nodded.

I turned to Wojtek. The boy was clutching a cup of black ambrosia to his mouth with one hand, and the other was leaning on a chair by the table. He was lost in thought... He was just as I remembered and liked him – a complete misfit – so messed up, but he still had his head in order, he had his ambitions, plans, and that soul – a complete dreamer and idealist. He was just like me... Pants three sizes too big, sweatshirt two sizes too big, shoes just right, that was Wojtek... my Wojtek...

"The coffee is delicious, as always," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the window

. "Heh, heh, you're exaggerating," I replied, approaching the boy

. "Today will be a nice day

." "Yes," I nodded. "It's supposed to be 30 degrees in the shade. I never thought I'd ever want it to rain, but now, it's a real longing.

" "Heh," the boy laughed, turning his head towards me. "You hate the heat that much?"

"I won't comment," I said, sipping the warm liquid

. "Oli, can I ask you for something? But promise me you'll agree," he asked so spontaneously.

"Okay, yes

.

" "Promise me." "I promise.

" "Will you go shopping with me today?" the boy asked shyly.

"Me?" I was surprised.

"You've always gone out with the guys." "I've changed too, he he. "

I smiled, taking another sip of the black drink.

"Hmmm..." I wondered

. "Well, please!" Supas's eyes begged for consent

. "Okay," I managed. "Actually, I have to buy a few things too

." "You're great!" he exclaimed.

"Did I make you that happy?"

"You don't even realize it." Wojtek's eyes were smiling. "Thank you," he said, kissing my cheek

. "It's nothing," I whispered, placing the mug on the kitchen counter. "You know, I was going to tell you!" I unconsciously changed the subject. "I saw your posts on "Bałtyk."

"Ah...yes, we were painting there. What a mess it was, because you know, the building was supposedly abandoned, but the guard was watching to make sure no one came in. Young—you know, that guy who lives next door to me pretended to be Spider-Man and broke his arm, he he."

"Fuck, that's good. But how did you get inside?" I asked.

"We waited for security to make their rounds and go to the bathroom. Because, you know, some old geezer was watching over it. It's a shame you missed it. Everyone had this mental illness that something was about to collapse, or some such possibility.

" I lowered my head. Graffiti had been a difficult subject for me ever since I gave up on it. I don't think I could paint anymore, even though I wanted to... It had been my drug for as long as I can remember—my motivation and a way to vent my frustration—the only thing I truly owned—was my freedom... The freedom I'd lost."

Supas put the porcelain dish in the sink, then, glancing at his watch, said,

"I'm going. I'll be there at 10, right?" We'll quickly do the shopping and I won't bother you anymore.

"Come on, I don't have anything else to do," I explained.

"It's for the view." He nodded and, like an arrow hurtling towards an apple, sped towards the exit.

"Hi..." I replied, hearing the door slam shut

. I felt like I was dreaming. Besides, who knows—maybe it was a dream, maybe this whole story was one, maybe even my life...

A return to the past—that's how I could call this meeting, this evening, this morning. I never thought I'd return here—to this very moment of my existence, though a new beginning, yet still the same. Supas had broken a certain barrier—an obstacle that clung to me, that prevented me from opening up to anyone, that made me run away whenever anyone tried to get close to me. It arose suddenly—the moment Olo hurt me so deeply—and disappeared, perhaps also suddenly—when I realized that everything had its meaning...

I glanced at the kitchen clock hanging on one of the walls, just above the stove. The black hands read 5:50. "God! How early," I thought, opening three roof windows one by one. A summer breeze stealthily swept into the apartment, filling it with a wave of fresh air. The melody flowing from the silver record player suddenly faded, and the entire room was filled with an inexorable silence. I felt my own uneven breathing and a rapid heartbeat, which at a certain point started to give me shivers. The fear of what might happen accompanied me every day. I was afraid of not waking up in the morning, but also of getting up to the sound of the alarm. I was afraid of happiness, joy, love... I was simply afraid to live...

Do you know what it's like when every smile hurts? I used to be able to enjoy life, make the most of it, and seize every moment. As Horace used to say >>> "CARPE DIEM." However, what I encountered along the way changed me profoundly. Olo changed me...

We met in early July two years ago, when my parents inherited an apartment in Rataje from my great-grandparents. Before that, my grandmother and I lived in a beautiful white house on Grochowska Street – it was perfect until my grandfather died and my grandmother fell into a deep depression. Then Aunt Matylda, my grandmother's sister, moved in with us, and we moved out at the first opportunity. That's how I ended up in the Heroes of World War II housing estate. It seemed like an ordinary move, but it changed almost everything!

I met Olgierd completely by accident, on the third day of my new home. I left the apartment to throw out the trash – I stood in front of the elevator – I pressed the button – the elevator stopped – I opened the door – I went inside, and there he was! The first smile, a small talk, and that's how it all began – so innocently and carefree. We fell in love, so deeply that two months later I couldn't imagine life without him, and vice versa. Breakfasts, dinners, rooftop barbecues :) The first joints and serious alcoholic drinks. So many nights spent outdoors gazing at the stars. Candlelit dinners and his romantic surprises. We painted coasters and snowboarded together. Sometimes we even swapped clothes. We explored hip-hop culture together and fell more and more in love with it with each passing day.

Olo always had time for me, always hugged, kissed, comforted me. I knew he cared about me – he made me feel it, and I'd never loved anyone as much as he did. We fooled around, often even studied together. Everyone knew that if there was Olgierd, there was me, and vice versa. We were inseparable... We dreamed of triplets – three sons. One was supposed to be a DJ, the other a b-boy, and the third an MC. We were writers, so the circle was complete. We had a wonderful time together, until...

When Olo's parents separated and he moved in with his grandmother, a chapter in his—our—life called "drugs" began. He failed his final exams and broke down, which made things even worse. He felt like he'd let himself down, his parents, his grandmother, me... I didn't think so. Olgierd was the greatest "thing" that ever happened to me, or at least I thought so until he hit me for the first time. Heroin changed him. He could say "no," but at the same time, his aggression grew. When he was at his "reunion," he would get angry over the smallest things—that my hair wasn't styled correctly, that I forgot to return his books, that I didn't want to have sex with him. That was the worst. If I'd had the courage to accuse him of rape, I would have done it more than once. I remember one time he broke my nose—he got angry because I had to study and couldn't go to a concert with him. It hurt, and it hurt a lot. But it wasn't physical pain – that I could bear – for him! It hurt inside. It was the worst kind of pain I'd ever known. I felt like some all-powerful force was tearing my heart apart, like someone was stabbing it in turns. Because what can you feel when you love someone with all your might and are ready to lay down your life for them, and they choose to "embellish" it?

We often smoked together, but Olgierd's care prevented me from feeling any fear or uncertainty. Besides, I don't think there's anything destructive about smoking, unless it's in excess – like with everything. When Olo's experiments with wires were in a more advanced stage, he often forced me to do the same. He never succeeded – not only because I was afraid and losing trust in him with each passing day, but because I saw and understood what was happening to him. Once, I paid for expressing my opinion with a broken hand. He landed me in the hospital more than once, and I forgave him more than once, even though I loved him.

After a while, my parents began to suspect what was really going on. How many times can you trip on the stairs or fall off a board? I denied it; what else could I do? And so the day passed.

There were, of course, moments I'll never forget, moments that made me want to live so much! I remember last year on my name day, we went to Kiekrz, completely alone... It was supposed to be a surprise, and... it was! We spent a wonderful weekend in a small wooden house. Candles, spaghetti for dinner, a hot bath—it was like a dream... I woke up next to him and fell asleep next to him; I couldn't dream of anything more. I saw peace, joy, but also... heroin in his eyes. I loved him and was afraid at the same time, which is probably why I couldn't leave. I hoped that one day I would see the boy I fell in love with again—that Olgierd from the elevator, that lunatic in baggy pants, goggles, and a board under his arm. I believed in it, and apparently, faith works miracles... It's just a shame they so rarely happen... The only miracle was that one night, when Olgierd and I were on the roof, and when he got angry about something again and started hitting me, Supas came and stopped him... he saved me... I don't remember it, but Wojtek later said that I was lying on the ground, half-conscious, with a crushed head and convulsions, and when he spoke to me, I couldn't understand it... He himself was scared; Olo was his friend, after all, and I think he felt partly responsible for what was happening to him, just like I did... Supas took me to the hospital and called the police. He was actually the one who ended our relationship; I wouldn't have had the courage...

After a two-week stay in the hospital, my parents sent me to Monar because of the presence of Thc in my blood. They thought I was in the same boat as Olo. I know they meant well, I know they were worried and wanted to help, and I didn't give them a chance, but I also know how much they hurt me with that Monar... A year in the center, where you encountered someone sick at every turn, wasn't pleasant. I was sick too, but in a completely different way. It was what was good and sweet in me – my childhood – that was sick. I couldn't acclimate because I didn't understand those people. I saw something of Olgierd in each of them. I tried to imagine what kind of beings they used to be, how they lived, and how they might have lived if it weren't for drugs... I only truly hated that shit at Monar, when every day I saw blank faces—completely expressionless, when I saw 12-year-old boys with slashed arms... I slashed mine too—from wrist to elbow on the outside, but not because I wanted to kill myself; that wouldn't even have been possible, I just wanted it to stop hurting... I think I survived Monar only thanks to music and painting, because those two things were my sweet delight :) I only painted on paper—in pencil, because unfortunately, nothing else was allowed. That's when I said goodbye to graffiti, to true hardcore on the roller coasters and legal commissions, to the hiss of sprayed paint and its smell... It hurt too, so creating projects was a kind of soothing salve for aching wounds.

I woke up and fell asleep with headphones in; hip-hop was everything. I put on Grammatik when I felt down, and Dr. Dre when I wanted to dance. The only time I was away from this music was during school. They usually lasted five hours a day, including breaks, in groups of six, eight, or ten, depending on the subjects taught. School was fun, completely different from the one I'd attended before. The lessons were more like Dead Poets Society English than the pointlessly cobbled-together Polish school curriculum. I was a good student; I'd never had trouble learning before, anyway—I wanted to learn. To know more than others, to surprise others with my knowledge, skills, and creativity—that was my desire. I wanted to be extraordinary, unique, different from the rest. I simply wanted to be someone... Hip-hop helped, and a lot. He was there when I cried and when I laughed, when I was sad, happy, when I missed him... he was there when everyone left... "Fulfilling dreams is those few simple things, and in my life, everything. God, hip-hop..." I never thought it was because of this subculture that everything got tangled, because it was my choice after all, although maybe sometimes I should have thought so. Perhaps many things would have been simpler, less confusing, more enjoyable, perhaps there wouldn't have been so many troubles and worries, perhaps... but this is only a matter of speculation and conjecture, and unfortunately, I'm not a fortune teller. Every day I thanked God for hip-hop—but not for the camouflage on my butt and Cormaxes on my feet, not for glass pipes and keys on leashes. I was thankful for the limitless freedom I felt in my heart when I saw the train pulling away with my panel, and for the paint on my hands that I couldn't wash off. I was grateful for the motivation and hope I heard in my favorite songs, and for the feeling of happiness when I could raise my hands in unison with hundreds of other people at concerts. It came from the heart...

My parents visited me every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, Aśka on Tuesdays and Thursdays, my friends (or rather, people I considered friends) never... I had grown accustomed to loneliness; I had no other choice.

I lived in a room with three girls, all around my age. Sometimes I talked to them, sometimes we even laughed together, but I couldn't connect with them; we were too different... I didn't feel any better or worse than them, I was simply completely different. So, as soon as the opportunity arose, I moved into a separate room. I hung sheets of paper with my paintings on the walls, which over time filled the entire room. The windowsill was covered with dozens of books, the table in the middle of the room with my CDs and a stash of batteries, and in the large closet right by the door were clumsily packed pieces of my wardrobe. The floor served as a resting place for a notebook, sketchbooks, pencils, crayons, slippers, and loose sheets of paper. In short – an artistic mess.

I kept a photo of Olgierd under my pillow; I couldn't get rid of it. It was there when I closed my eyes and when I opened them in the morning. I saw him in the sounds of hip-hop samples and the sharp lines of my pencil, I could still smell his perfume on my clothes; he was still important to me... I cried every night for the first few months, then – as time went on – everything became indifferent to me, losing all meaning, except for hip-hop, of course. I think that if it weren't for this music and God's presence in my life – I wouldn't have made it, and after three or four weeks, I would have slit my wrists or drank disinfectant because it hurt so much! It's true – I am a coward, or rather, I was one, because I finally understood that I had to live – for Klara, my parents, my memories… and for Olgierd. Sometimes I think I breathed him and thanks to him I continued to exist, though it may seem completely absurd, because if it weren't for Olo, I wouldn't be in Monar, there wouldn't be scars on my body, an emptiness in my heart, and so many tears shed. But I don't regret anything, because what could I possibly regret? His smile? His warm voice? The joy in my heart I felt when he came to say "I'm sorry" each morning? Or the look on his face when he said "I love you"? I always blamed myself, not him – I know I could have helped, but I guess I didn't try hard enough. I'll never forgive myself for that…

I remember every moment of the year I spent at Monar, my breakdowns there and the hope I regained, but perhaps most of all, I remember the joy brought by each day I crossed off my calendar.

If I could turn back time, if I had that magical power, I would change my life from the moment I found myself in confinement. I don't regret a single moment of it; I just wish I could find room for a few happy moments. It's not optimism that determines the shape of our existence, but an illusory fate, or perhaps even chance? Yes, I know – I can't ask for justice and equality for all – justice is for the courts, and that's life… Such a small fact.

The hands of the clock stood in one vertical line: six o'clock had struck!

The sun's rays were now filling almost the entire attic space, giving it a very cheerful and optimistic air. This morning's plan was swirling in my head: first a warm shower, then a small breakfast, some cleaning, and finally, Supas! I smiled as I thought of him. My memories so far have been mostly sad and bitter, but Wojtek's could be classified as one of those pleasant and enjoyable, yet very rare ones :( The previous evening I thought I'd like to return to the chapter of my life that mentioned Supas, but return in a completely different chapter, or rather open a fresh one, copying some elements of the old one. It's the same as creating a new text document in Office, wanting to paste some old material into it, but such office comparisons have nothing to do with reality.

The shower was nice and pleasant, although it probably sounds like a description of a bad date - I loved spending time in the bathroom, probably like every woman. However, I didn't count myself among those dyed blondes with white tips who spent all day in the solarium and partied at cheap discos on the weekends. I despised such people, even though I knew only 3 or 4 people who belonged to that subculture. Perhaps I didn't want to understand and respect them, perhaps I looked down on them, but they deserved it – for their drops, fries, feta cheese, and screaming

:

ya

... Left on the turntable, I examined it from every angle. Finally, it was truly clean! I don't like mess, but I also don't enjoy cleaning, which, combined with my sister's meticulous nature, didn't exactly work out for me.

When I was "free" two months ago and moved back in with my parents, it was strange... hard... different... I felt a certain distance from them because of what they'd done. I know, I know – it was for my own good, I'd heard it so many times. It was buried deep within me, and despite every attempt to shake off the remnants of resentment, anger, and a certain contempt, I couldn't. We didn't argue, I didn't protest certain decisions that, in any case, I didn't like – I didn't cause any problems. I tried to smile, I was nice, polite, and I helped with whatever I could, yet the coldness between us was palpable. My parents wanted to control me at every turn, saying they trusted me, even though it was the other way around. I didn't go out anywhere, spending my evenings at home because I was afraid of arguments, and besides, I didn't feel like interacting with people. I grew to love solitude, even though it sometimes felt relentless, becoming more of an enemy than a friend...

We sold the apartment and moved back to Grochowska Street, as Grandma moved in with Aunt Matylda in Międzyzdroje, who ran, or rather owned, a very well-known sanatorium there. Grandma decided she needed a break from what she called "big-city boredom" and declared she would spend at least the next year by the sea. And so I slowly returned to my "roots," though the phrase probably sounds ridiculous coming from a barely 18-year-old, but that was my reality.

When Asia went to the mountains with Tomek and Klara to visit Uncle Grzegorz for a month, she suggested I stay with her for the time – she wanted me to take care of the house, although she could just as easily have asked my mother. She knew full well that I needed time to sort things out, to start living normally again. After all, she was my sister, she had to know.

I agreed on the condition that I could live on my own for a month – free, without my parents' omnipresent gaze. My mother initially refused to agree to all this, but Aśka and Tomek convinced her, and two weeks ago I moved into Kosińskiego Street.

We usually saw my parents every day, or at short intervals. I'd come home for lunch, dinner, sometimes to lie on a blanket on the garden grass, and sometimes for no reason at all. I didn't want to distance myself from either my mom or dad; I loved them! I simply tried to understand them, and with each passing day, they tried to understand me too. However, it was all much more difficult than it seemed – good intentions and a desire for understanding weren't enough; there was a huge emotional gulf between us, a certain resentment, and mutual disappointment – ​​something very hard to erase from memory. Things seemed to be getting better day by day, though not much had changed – I still didn't go out anywhere, except for shopping and walks, of course. My evenings were traditionally spent watching TV or figuring out my entire, somewhat pointless, existence. Only the surroundings had changed – I was alone again, and the only thing that choked me was, as Eldo once said: "these are the four walls in my room, because I know they know too much."

Anyway, from the moment I moved in with Żaka, I tried my best to make it perfect. Maybe it was a way to kill time, boredom, forgetfulness – I don't know...

I put the CD in the player. "EP+" GRAMMATIKA, my favorite - track 14 - "My Story." A moment of silence and Eldoka's calm voice: "Some time ago, two years, the catalyst was loss, something found, truth sought.... For a long time, a simple story: street life And a love for poetry that builds words into lyricism. The fulfillment of dreams, what you hear are these few simple things, and in my life everything. God, hip-hop friends, the need for happiness, searching for good things, peace, desire..."

I lay down on my back on the couch. I closed my eyes. I thought, I remembered. I wanted to cry, though I don't really know why. Sometimes certain things move us, make us sad—they bring us to tears for unknown reasons, they remain in our memories for a long time, and sometimes they even change us profoundly, even though sometimes they are just thoughts...

"Cutouts, scattered photographs, sins of the real world stacked in the closet" – the rhyme kept repeating in my head. A multitude of images flashed before my eyes – scenes from moments spent together with Wojtek. Our English lessons together, our weight-loss treatments (to clarify – I was the one losing weight, and Supas was just watching over me and supporting me), and his strong embrace, which I felt when he hugged me after every argument with Olgierd. I told him everything, as long as I wasn't afraid to talk about it. He comforted and helped. Sometimes his presence, his gaze, his silence… and I understood! He always had this magical power to calm me down. I trusted him completely, though I don't know why. I knew Wojtek couldn't hurt me, cause me pain, or hurt me… unfortunately, I lost that ball with him. When, before my stay at Monar, I was in the hospital and Olgierd was in juvenile detention, we had a terrible argument. I said many hurtful words to Wojtek, which haunted me for a very long time. In the heat of the moment and in the heat of the moment, you do and say many unnecessary, thoughtless things—words, and they can hurt so deeply. I was incredibly angry at Supas then, because after all, he was the one who called the police, the one who put my best friend in jail... and he was the one who saved my life—but I understood this much later. I felt I owed him a huge debt of gratitude. It might be a bit of an exaggeration to say that thanks to him I still exist today, but he was definitely the one who made me free again. In Monar, I often thought about Wojtek, many times I wanted to write—to explain, I waited for him to come, but he never did. I knew it was entirely my fault. When I yelled at him and told him I didn't want to know him, our paths suddenly diverged, and neither of us protested. Perhaps it was my temperamental and nervous nature, or perhaps we both needed time to sort things out. I know that the whole situation affected Wojtek as much as I did, and I had no right to be angry...

I was reminiscing... One day, a long time ago, because I don't remember exactly when, Supas and I came up with a certain "holiday," how shall I put it, hmm... a day to celebrate our friendship, namely FRIEND'S DAY. We celebrated it on March 1st, though I don't know exactly who set that date or why. Wojtek, Olo, Zibi, Kuba, Dibi, Nitka, and I took this "holiday" very seriously. We gave each other handmade gifts and went out for a celebratory dinner, though sometimes it was just a Big Mac at McDonald's or pasta with tomato sauce at the milk bar on Cyryla Square (our favorite).

A year ago, on March 1st to be exact, the guys in our group got a tattoo – all the same, in the same place. An interwoven Gothic pattern on their backs, forming one very important sentence: ONLY TRUE FRIENDSHIP IS POWER (excerpt from the lyrics of the song "Warszafski Deszcz" [Warsaw Rain]). Tattoos have never really appealed to me, so I wasn't interested in the idea. Nitka already had one, so she passed. So we baked a cake for the guys together, with the same inscription made from carved-out cherries. We spent that evening at Wojtek's, in his new house in Szczepanków. First, we had a bonfire in the garden, even though it was freezing cold, and then we had a movie marathon while eating cake. I'll never forget that "holiday." It was perfect...

I don't know why our group fell apart so suddenly. It was certainly influenced by what was happening between Olgierd and me – he divided us, then the situation with Supas, Nitka's departure. Suddenly, each of us began to live completely different lives – we no longer thought alike, had no plans or dreams in common… Apparently, it wasn't true friendship, or it wasn't a powerful one. Besides, did it matter why things went sour? We allowed it – I allowed it, so my ramblings seemed pointless. It was simply "something that's gone never returns."

The record in the player skipped, making a quiet, yet slightly unsettling noise. I heard the notes of another album, this time Paktofonika. "Everything has its priorities, everything has its advantages and disadvantages..."

Every time I listened to it, I thought of Felix. Yes, yes… I kept pondering this issue, but I guess I couldn't help it. I loved him more than anything – his voice, the sight, everything he did. I wanted him to be in my life forever, and then one sunny day he simply left me...

He was the dearest cousin, the best friend I could have ever had. Sometimes I miss him so much I want to jump out the window to be next to him. Why haven't I done it yet? Because there comes a moment when I remember all the moments spent with Felix, every smile, look, funny text. Then I know I have to live to remember, because he will always be there for me, always... he promised me that once.

I reached into my back pocket, revealing a folded piece of white paper. It was a letter to Felix I'd written the previous day. I wrote to him often, especially after his death, and although I never sent them, I believed he read them. This clumsily scribbled note, however, was the last addressed to Mr. Schmidt – I finally had to accept that he was gone and would never return… I looked at the crooked letters scribbled in black pen, which, with each subsequent word, began to form a sad, yet very true, confession.

DEAR COUSIN!

I'd like to count how many times I've tried to write to you since... you died,

but I can't. Today I'm writing for the thirtieth and final time.

It's Thursday, a warm August evening. You always loved days like this, you said they gave you the courage

to live, to fight. It's a shame we can't spend days like this together anymore – sitting on our

roof in the evening and looking at the satin sky with golden stars. How did you say it?

Our dreams, right? Or rather, our pipe dreams. I can't remember anymore. I miss it...

I miss every moment spent with you, every conversation, every phone call,

I miss you so much... And now I want to cry so much, but no! – I won't,

I promised...

It's just started raining, which is good, because it's been a while since it rained. Whenever the weather is like this, I'm reminded of vacation – hot days, afternoon rains, and the smell of fresh, hot

rolls in Dziwnów, remember? It's a shame it all went by so quickly – too quickly. . .

I often wonder where you are, what you're doing, if you're happy THERE, if there's even

a THERE? If I were sure this UNKNOWN WORLD existed and that I'd meet

you in it – I'd follow you. . .

It's so strange that just three years ago we were sitting together in Freedom Square in Poznań, and

you were skateboarding. There was so much joy, so much happiness in you then. . . I saw a brave

boy with big dreams – my cousin, a teacher, someone who lived with the knowledge

that he was dying, yet enjoyed every moment, and I still see that in you, because you know perfectly well

that for me you will never die. You're there every time I visit Gdańsk and eat

vanilla ice cream at Długi Targ, when I read Frost and listen to hip-hop. I see you when I paint

trains because I remember how you used to do it, and when I sit by the sea, I picture

two little children – a boy and a girl – chasing each other on the beach. It all still

hurts, but at the same time, it's so happy because I know you're with me again.

Remember how I once said you were the thief of my loneliness? Because

you were almost always there, even though the distance between Poznań and Gdańsk separated us.

It was wonderful, though – that neither of us treated it as an obstacle or a barrier,

but merely as an element integrated into the overall nature of our friendship. Now, only

loneliness remains...

It took me a long time to get used to the fact that you were gone. I remember

you calling me every day at 4 a.m. and it annoyed the hell out of me, but I got so used to it that to this day I wake up at 4 a.m. hoping to hear the phone ring

and your voice again...

You know, I never told you this, but you always played one of the leading roles in

my life, you were a wonderful cousin and companion on late-night concert escapades.

I loved being with you; you were not just a friend, but like half of me.

You knew everything about me—how to make me laugh and annoy me, you even knew what

I was thinking. I couldn't stay mad at you, think badly of you, or say anything like that.

You were the most beloved person in my life—someone indescribable, someone you never

forget.

I miss you so much. It always hurts when someone passes away, and although their memory

remains vivid, a void appears in life – a blank part of the page erased –

needlessly erased – and you are that part.

Ten years have passed since I met you. Sometimes I can't believe it's been

so long. You'd probably say: GET IT? WE'VE KNOWN EACH OTHER FOR SO LONG!

Yes, it was a wonderful time in my life. Ten years of partying together, fooling around,

vacationing together, running away from home. Many moments spent painting graffiti and reading Wharton. Dozens of hours sitting in the theater, the opera, and on Długi Targ eating vanilla ice cream

with hazelnut sauce (our favorite). And even though you're gone today, I'll never forget

all of it.

You were always a role model for me, setting an example for me with your great courage and determination.

You never gave anything up for nothing – you always fought! You impressed me with everything – with who

you were, what you believed in, what you loved and hated. You gave the world more than you

received. I will never accept your death; I was too connected to you –

I loved you too much, and that is precisely why, for me, you will never die. I know you won't

call or write again, that we won't spend even a single minute together, but I also know

that you will never leave me, on the contrary – you will always be there, after all, you promised...

When you left, I wrote this about you:

What can I say about a seventeen-year-old boy? That he was handsome? That he was sensitive? That he loved

Frost? Goethe? Hip-hop and me? That he was my beloved cousin? Yes. That's exactly what

Felix Schmidt was – a restless spirit and a great dreamer who wanted to change the entire world – with his

ideas and ideals . . . with his entire life.

[. . . ] On August 20, 2001, a man passed away so wonderful that it was hard to believe such

a person existed – extraordinary, unique, immortal . . .

Every time I look at your photos, I see just such a person. A boy with bold

views and big plans, a future philologist and famous writer – my mentor.

I smiled at that moment. But I wrote this letter, now I'm happy.

See you soon, my prince, someday we'll surely eat ice cream together again on our roof. I finish,

and as Hamlet says – "the rest is silence" . . .

Your princess.

It was difficult to go through those dregs of memories again, but this time without tears. I had to learn to live without Felix and his helping hand at every turn. For the past three years, I'd pretended he'd gone somewhere, and that's why I'd written those letters—to somehow hold onto at least a piece of him. Unfortunately, reality turned out to be completely different from what I'd imagined, and a simple snap of my fingers didn't cause the light at the pedestrian crossing to change from red to green. I had to grow up...

The phone, left on the kitchen counter, suddenly began to vibrate strangely, and with it, notes of a calm polyphony. I jumped up from the couch. The yellow LEDs on the screen showed the name of the "interruption of my thoughts"—Mom.

"Hello!" I said, pressing the green receiver button

. "Hello Oli!" I heard a familiar voice

. "Hi Mom!

" "What's up? Everything okay?"

"Well, yes, I would have let you know if it were otherwise," I replied calmly

. "Listen... I don't know if you were going to our... home, I mean. I just wanted to let you know that we're going to Aunt Kasia's this evening, so no one will be home, so you won't be surprised.

" "I understand, Mom. Don't worry, I'll manage. If anything, I have the keys," I replied curtly.

"Well, you're a big girl now. I just thought you might want to come over for dinner, or just something, and we won't be there.

" "Mom, don't worry so much about me. I'll come tomorrow around noon, okay?" Another short reply.

"Okay," I heard. "That's it. Have a nice day and take care of yourself.

" "Say hi to your aunt today. Bye," I whispered, pressing delete on my phone.

My mother. She couldn't resist the urge to check on me, because I could have done something wrong. Lack of trust is probably the thing that hurts most in human relationships, because everything is based on trust. I trusted my parents, even though they had let me down more than once. I had to trust them to find some balance in this world, but unfortunately, they didn't reciprocate. I know I was important to them; otherwise, they wouldn't have behaved this way. They worried and wanted the best for me, while simultaneously fearing I would hurt them again. I loved them too – they gave me life, created the conditions for me to grow, helped me – I felt I could count on them… although I never used that help. I was always withdrawn, afraid of people, much less talking to them, regardless of my relationship status. I couldn't talk about my problems, the questions in my life. Everything that was wrong was lingering inside me – I was just waiting for the day when the worries condensed in my nervous system would explode. I know this isn't a good way to exist, especially for a young person in school, when interpersonal contact is one of the most important aspects of life. However, this was who I was. Yes, yes... I'm Olimpia, I'm 18, I'm afraid to live... no comment.

Less than 10 minutes later, my thoughts were interrupted once again by a phone call – this time my home phone. I took a few steps, took a few breaths, waved my hand.

"Hello!" I greeted another interrupter of my loneliness

. "Hi, sister!" Aśka's cheerful voice brought a smile to my face

. "Hi!

" "What's up? The house is all right?" she joked

. "Yeah, right! Unfortunately, I haven't managed to destroy it yet," I replied. "I need to tidy up more." Asia started laughing

. "Listen... something might have arrived for us

." "A few letters, but I don't think they're that important." A card from Mariusz, a letter from the States, I think it's from Sylwia, a postcard from Grandma, and nothing else, I guess. I explained

. "So nothing came from the bank or the city hall?

" "No, definitely not from there," I replied.

"Well, that's cool. And how are you coping in general?

" "Okay, I'm not complaining. But what's going on with you? Tell me," curiosity permeated my voice

. "Great!" Aśka exclaimed. "The weather is very nice, the people here are so nice and friendly. You can feel the fresh air, and it's so peaceful here, completely different than in the city. There's a lake nearby, so Klara and I have been sunbathing since morning, he he.

" "Exactly! How's my goddaughter?" I asked

. "She's doing just fine, you know how she is – she likes anywhere she can get into trouble, she's not afraid of anyone, and I can't even count her friends anymore." I laughed.

"Well, that's good, as long as she doesn't get too sunburned in the sun."

"Come on, we don't sit still for long. You know how she is – she's such a flyaway, she can't stay in one place for more than five minutes. She swims in circles, although she didn't really want to at first." Asia continued her story.

"The water was probably too cold for her," she joked

. "Most likely. And how she squealed when Tomek took her to the lake for the first time, oh my, what was going on! But she gradually got used to it, so now she'd sit there all the time.

" "Little rascal," I commented. "Do you have any good food?" I asked.

"Hehe," I heard my sister laugh. "We take turns cooking with Tomek's aunt and cousin. When my aunt cooks something, it's always something I've never eaten before – typical highland fare." Anka, this cousin usually makes quick meals – you know, pasta or something like that, and when I cook, my uncle always asks for seconds, he he.

"I don't blame him at all!" I burst out laughing.

"Well, stop sucking up to me like that, he he.

" "If I could," I replied. "So, overall, you're happy, right?

" "Very happy!" Asia's excited voice took its toll

. "Well, that's the most important thing. It's good that you called, because last time we talked, it stopped, and then I couldn't reach you.

" "The connection here is generally poor, because the whole town is located in a valley and there's often interference. But that's just a minor detail. Okay, Oli, I'll finish because I hear Klara's woken up.

" "Okay, give her a kiss from me and Tomek too, of course, and... get some rest.

" "Thanks. Stay warm! Bye, bye!" I heard my sister's warm greetings

. "Bye!" "I said, hanging up the phone.

It was nice to hear Asia's presence again, even if it was only the mere presence of her voice on the phone. We used to argue very often—we couldn't communicate properly, but when she moved out after the wedding, everything changed. Maybe time is a kind of antidote to interpersonal conflicts? Perhaps that's what I needed in my relationship with my parents...

9:30 a.m. passed.