My dearest K.

21.

12 December 2015

My dearest K.,

What I came to understand is that change is not a choice. It happens, and you are different. What I came to feel these days that I didn't write something to you is... time. I felt aware. I felt real. I stopped asking myself if there was something you and I could have done to rescue us... I convinced myself that that is some silly, little idea I happened to make up. I stopped hating these white hospital walls... stopped feeling the weight of the pain other people are feeling because of my fate. I stopped feeling like I have to be the hero of the story all the time, not because I don't want to... but because being different in a mediocre world, surrounded by people that don't know how to feel happy... is becoming tiring.

Why would the hero be the girl who prefers to live in the shadow? How could the hero be someone who watches the world from the old window of a white hospital? When did you hear for the last time that the hero of the story was the girl who in the best case has one month of breathing left? And eventually... can the hero be someone who isn't willing to fight against the decided fate for the slap it gave, but is just sitting in the window pavement... letting the pain of that slap invade all of her mind and body until she is completely numb?

You can't blame me for sounding so weak. You didn't hear how the walls shook by my mum's screams when she heard that classic doctorish sentence that I have been looking forward to hearing: "I am sorry. We did everything we could... but her illness has advanced too much and all her organs have almost degenerated. She has at most one month left, so if you want to spend more time, she can be discharged from the hospital any moment. I am so sorry". I don't know why all these people feel sorry when I am thanking my organs for allowing the disease to spread all over. I don't understand why they are so scared of my death... because I died the day I allowed the earth I am standing on to swallow your body... This life was feeling too triumphal for taking you away from me... tell her not to cheer up that much... she doesn't know she buried both of us in your funeral day.

I asked my parents to pass my last days at my house... even the sky's colors get numb by the hospital's shadow. It's a bit chilly, but at least the sky is clear... I love it when the sky gets totally clear... it gives me all the space I need to imagine what we would be doing right now. We could wrap ourselves in a big blanket and just... imagine... allow ourselves to imagine like little kids whose biggest dream is to go to the park the next day... allow ourselves to break the chains that adulthood ties around our necks... allow ourselves just to be... pure. We could dive in deep conversations and not be afraid of telling secrets we have tried to drown in the time flow... because we believe... we believe in each other... we believe enough to tell the never untold secrets because we know they will die inside the chambers of our heart. Then I would ask my one million dollar question: "Do you love me?" and you would give me a 5-minute speech of how much you love me while looking straight through my eyes and never blinking. I still don't understand how you could stare for that long without blinking... I could get lost in your eyes for no more than 10 seconds... but I will learn. I will learn how to look in your eyes without fearing that maybe one day I would lose that view. We will have an eternity to do all of these things. Just wait a little more... I am coming.

Forever yours,

D.