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𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆: 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝
...🫀...
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊
𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟕
𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓
𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐞.
Doctors have been telling me that my whole life. I expected it. From all the doctor visits and surgeries, it was just prolonging the inevitable. Each diagnosis, each procedure, each well-meaning but ultimately empty reassurance was another reminder that my time was limited.
It was a truth I carried with me.
But here, in the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I could almost forget.
The paintings and sculptures stood timeless, a stark contrast to the ticking time bomb in my chest. The MET was my sanctuary, a place where I could lose myself in the brushstrokes of masters and the whispers of history.
I wandered through the galleries, letting my fingers trail along the cool, polished banisters. The colors and forms around me blurred into a comforting haze. I paused in front of a landscape painting, the serene countryside scene so different from the chaotic pulse of New York City outside.
Time seemed to stand still within these walls. Here, I wasn't a girl with a failing heart; I was simply an observer, a part of something much larger and more enduring.
I moved on, weaving through the crowd of tourists and art lovers, each of us lost in our own worlds.
A wave of dizziness hit me, and I gripped the nearest railing, my vision swimming. I closed my eyes, willing the sensation to pass. My phone buzzed and blinked through my blurry vision.
Glancing at the time, I sighed and turned, weaving through the clusters of tourists and art enthusiasts. I stepped out into the bustling streets of New York, the city's pulse syncing with my own as I hailed a taxi.
"Brooklyn, please," I said, settling into the backseat.
The driver nodded, and we were off, leaving the grandeur of the MET behind. I watched the city blur past the window, each familiar landmark bringing me closer to the reality I couldn't escape.
The cab stopped outside the boxing gym, and I paid the fare, stepping out into the familiar noise of my neighborhood. Conversations blended into a low hum, and the smell of sweat and leather greeted me as I entered the gym on the ground floor. Fighters pounded heavy bags, their grunts punctuating the rhythmic thuds of gloves against pads.
