Maxim lies like a statue. Motionless, alien, covered in shadows from the IV drip, the dim ceiling light, and something unseen lurking in every corner of this sterile, lifeless room. The machines around him emit their measured, indifferent sounds—buzzing, beeping, clicking—as if life could be reduced to algorithms and graphs.
The nurse moves quickly, confidently, as if following a rehearsed script. There is no tremor in her hands, no trace of pity in her gaze. Her businesslike expression is irritating, almost infuriating. How can she be so calm when he is… like this? When he isn't just a "patient." When he is him. My Max. My voice. My shadow. My person.
I can't tear my eyes away from him. And in that gaze—no distinct thoughts, no words. Just a desperate, clawing hope that if I stare long enough, he might suddenly blink. Twitch. Whisper. Anything. Just something.
But he doesn't move. This is him… and yet not him.
When the nurse finally leaves and the door clicks softly shut behind her, the air in the room shifts. As if someone has muted the world. Everything stills; even the machines seem quieter. Silence drapes over my shoulders like a heavy blanket, pressing down on my chest, my throat, every nerve.
I step closer to him. Slowly. As if afraid to disturb something vital—the balance, his sleep, his life. Maxim lies there… and there is no life in his face. His skin isn't just pale—it is nearly translucent, as if the blood beneath has vanished. Porcelain. Lifeless, indifferent porcelain. His lashes don't flutter, his lips are slightly parted, and his breathing—if it is even there—seems artificial, forced.
I sink to my knees beside the bed, not feeling the floor beneath me or the pain in my legs. All I feel is emptiness. Like a bottomless pit has opened inside me.
Slowly, so slowly, I reach out and touch his fingers. They are cold. Not just cool from the room's temperature—no. The chill comes from within. As if everything alive in him has retreated somewhere deep, beyond reach. I squeeze his hand—fragile, limp, helpless. Tug gently at first, then harder.
"Max…" I whisper, my voice trembling like a bulb about to burn out. "Please… please come back."
He doesn't answer. Doesn't blink. Doesn't twitch. Nothing. Only his chest rises in time with the machine's beeping, and I almost hate that sound. It keeps me from knowing—is he truly alive, or is this just a mechanical imitation of life?
I bend lower, pressing my forehead to his arm. The smell of antiseptic, metal, something sour and sterile fills my nose. I clench my eyes shut, tighten my grip on his fingers, as if I could push my strength, my pain, my desperation into him through touch.
And then… I realize. I am afraid. Not of fear itself, not of pain, not even of the hell we've been through. I am afraid of his silence. This hollow, indifferent silence that holds neither farewell nor hope. As if he has already left. And I—am left behind.
Something in my chest snaps. Like a fragile thread that has been holding warmth inside me. It spills out like water, and I feel tears rolling down my cheeks again—hot, unbearably human. I don't sob. Don't wail. This is quieter. Deeper. Like the weeping of a soul that doesn't need sound.
"I'm here, Max… do you hear me?.. I'm here… Just come back."
I don't remember sliding fully onto the floor. Don't remember my knees giving out. I think I just surrender—to the weight of this world, this room, this silence that feels like death.
There is only one thing I need—him.
"Max… please… I'm begging you…"
The words lose all meaning. They are a mantra, a whisper at the edge of a cliff. I say them because otherwise, I would shatter into pieces. Because this fear isn't fear anymore—it is something greater. Irreversible. Absolute.
Even as I drown in tears, I keep calling for him, whispering his name helplessly, as if it were the only thing tethering me to reality. Through the hot, salty blur, I can barely see his face—so calm, almost peaceful, as if he has simply fallen asleep after a long day. His lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, his lips slightly parted—as if he might inhale any second, speak, smile… but it doesn't happen. The world seems frozen—echoing my silence.
I shake his shoulders, press against him, whisper his name again and again—louder, more desperate, my voice breaking into a scream.
"Max… Max… please… wake up… come back to me… you promised… you said you wouldn't let go…"
My heart pounds wildly, breaking a little more with each second. I feel like I am suffocating. The air has turned thick as molasses, and I can't draw a full breath. My hands tremble as if they belong to someone else—a stranger's body, as helpless as I am.
I don't want to let go. Can't. Because with his last breath, a part of me died. Because a world without him is a darkness I don't know how to navigate. I kiss his cold cheeks, press my lips to his forehead, and whisper, barely audible, choking on tears:
"Come back… please… I love you… I love you so much…"
Suddenly, I hear the click of a lock. The door opens, and Vi appears on the threshold. His eyes fill with alarm, fear, and then—boundless pity—as he sees me clutching Max's body, clinging to him as if my touch were the last salvation. He doesn't say a word. Just steps forward, carefully wrapping his arms around me from behind, holding me tight as if trying to share my pain, to become a wall I can lean on. His hands tremble. Even him—the one who always stays composed—can't hide his emotions.
I scream like a wounded animal, tearing myself from his embrace.
"Max! No! Let me go to him!" My voice tears free, raw and bleeding, my soul laid bare. "Max, please… don't leave me… I can't… I can't live without you, do you hear me?!"
The words vanish into the void, unanswered. My heart feels like it is being ripped from my chest—as if nothing remains inside but smoke and ash. My love, my life, my sun… slipping away, through my fingers like water I can't hold. A weight lodges in my throat, heavy, suffocating. I thrash in despair, a caged bird beating its wings against the bars.
A nurse enters the room. I barely notice her—everything around me is blurred, unreal, as if veiled by the thick haze of a dream. Or a nightmare. Yes, this has to be a nightmare… except it refuses to end. No pain, no screams, no tears can wake me. Because I am not asleep. This is real.
She moves quickly, decisively—with the trained efficiency of someone used to pushing emotions aside. Her eyes hold no cruelty—just sympathy, exhaustion, and a professional sort of sadness. She's probably seen this before. How many like me have broken down during her shifts?
I feel the sharp sting of a needle in my shoulder—cold metal, her fingers, the prick. Something in my mind cracks, collapsing inward. Reality begins to blur—edges melting, sounds muffling, Vi's voice calling my name as if through thick glass.
The drug in my veins is like ice. Cold, heavy, creeping through me with merciless inevitability. My fingers no longer feel Max's skin. My arms turn to lead. My head empties. Vi holds me as I slump, his voice warm but distant, fraying at the edges.
"No… no, please… don't…" I slur, feeling my body go numb.
I don't want peace. Don't want to forget. I want the pain—because it's the only thing still tying me to him. He is gone… but the agony remains. And I cling to it like the last thread between us.
Yet my strength is fading. I keep muttering, incoherent, grasping at every sound, every thought, fighting the artificial void they've injected into me. My eyelids grow impossibly heavy, as if weighted with stones. Everything inside me stills—my heart hiding, freezing, dissolving with my consciousness.
Still, I whisper:
"Max… my love… don't go…"
Don't leave me in this world that's wrong without you. Dead. Unbearable.
The fog swallows me—slow, thick, sticky. The line between sleep and waking vanishes. Everything softens, like a pillow underwater. I can't feel my body. Only my heart. It pounds. Hard. Too hard. But not inside me—somewhere else. From the depths.
I wake in darkness. At first, I don't know where I am. My body feels foreign—heavy, sluggish, submerged in honey. My head throbs, thoughts tangled, eyelids glued shut. Inside: silence. But not the calm, peaceful kind… no. This silence is sharp. Tense. Almost violent. The kind where every breath feels like a scream, and its echo terrifies you.
I open my eyes. Pitch black. Not a single spark of light. Just cold emptiness. I blink. Once. Twice. Nothing changes. My chest tightens—not from fear, but from the realization: This isn't a dream. This is real. A darkness so thick it could swallow a soul whole.
I shift—sheets rustle beneath me like dry leaves. My body aches dully, stiff and weak. And deep beneath my ribs, it flares again: the pain. The kind you can't scream away, can't cry out, can't exhale. It just is. And it is you.
Then I remember.
Max.
Like thunder cracking through my skull. It all rushes back—his still body, my hands clutching him, the screaming, Vi, the needle…
The world stitches me back together—rough thread through raw flesh. And then, at the edge of oblivion… I hear it. A sound. Faint. Barely there. Like the flutter of lashes. Like a breath. Not from machines. Not in my head. From him.
I try to open my eyes—my lids weigh a ton. Everything swims. I can't tell real from unreal. But in that half-light, between the IV drip and the monitor's pulse, I think—
"Ma—" The whisper leaves my lips like a prayer. "Max?.."
The world tilts, shatters, loses all shape—but for a second, before darkness takes me again, I see it.
His eyelids twitch.
The room is swallowed in shadows, save for the faint glow of the machine by the bed. And then I realize—I'm not alone on that bed. Someone holds me from behind—warm, firm, the way he once did.
My heart skips a beat.
Max. He's awake… He's here! He's holding me—
I turn sharply, hope surging so violently it feels like resurrection.
"Max!"
"It's me," comes the soft reply.
But it's not him.
It's Vi.
I freeze. Pain crashes over me. The illusion shatters. Tears come unbidden, shameless, endless. I drown in them, in my own despair.
"Katrinka…" Vi whispers, pulling me gently against him. "Please… don't cry. He's alive. He's alive, do you hear me?"
The words echo through my soul. I cling to them like a lifeline. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny flame flickers—weak, but alive.
He's alive. Max is alive.
For now, that's enough to keep breathing.
"How is he?" I ask, barely above a whisper. My voice is hoarse, as if each word scrapes my throat raw from the inside.
"He's better," Vi replies softly. "The doctors are optimistic. Nothing's broken. His organs are intact, more or less. So he'll wake up soon."
I look away, clench my hands. Everything inside me trembles.
"He'll hate me when he wakes up..."
"What kind of nonsense is that?" Vi frowns. "He loves you. I don't know what happened between you, but he could never hate you."
"You think so?.." My voice sounds hollow, as if I don't believe it myself.
"I know. He'd do anything for you. I'm sure—he's just glad it was him who got hurt, not you."
I don't answer. Just nod, not arguing aloud—but inside, I disagree. My thoughts are darker. Poisoned by guilt.
"His condition isn't as bad as the doctors first thought," Vi continues. "He's recovering. Soon, you'll be together again."
I lower my gaze and, barely breathing, whisper:
"His body… But what about his soul? Who'll heal that?"
Vi looks at me for a long time, with something tender and sad all at once.
"You. Only you can do that."
I give a bitter laugh.
"First, I destroyed it… his body, his soul… And now I'm supposed to heal him? You think he'll even give me the chance?.."
"You think too little of yourself… and of him, too. Believe me, he doesn't blame you."
"I know he's the best thing that ever happened to me. Aside from you and Grandma, of course. But me? I'm the worst thing that ever happened to him. I ruined everything. Look where we ended up. He's in intensive care, Vi..."
The man sighs heavily, understanding how deeply I blame myself.
"You both need time. You—to stop torturing yourself with this guilt. Him—to wake up and show you that all this… everything you've imagined… it's only in your head. It has nothing to do with how he feels."
I squeeze his hands. My chest still burns, as if a piece had been carved out—but in that pain, a fragile shadow of hope flickers. Weak as breath in winter air, but real.
I stay at the hospital.
Vi visits us every day—bringing food, news, calming me even when I stay silent. He always knows when I need him.
Time crawls like thick honey, every second without Max its own kind of torture.
A day and a half has passed since they brought us here. It is morning. I sit on my cot, legs tucked under me, staring out the window at another gloomy dawn. Somewhere down the hall, a nurse's cart rattles, and I wait for her to bring breakfast and check on Max.
I keep wanting to say "my boyfriend" aloud, but now I catch myself biting off the "my", as if it no longer belongs to me. Or I to him.
And then—
"Katrin?.."
The voice is barely audible, like wind against the window.
I freeze. Everything inside me stops. No thoughts, no breath—just emptiness, echoing that fragile, almost unreal word. My name. In his voice.
No. It can't be. A hallucination? A ghost? My mind playing tricks, frayed by pain and drugs? I grip the sheets. Squeeze my eyes shut. My heart pounds violently—painfully, unevenly.
"Katrin?.."
Again. Clearer this time. As if the world had cracked open, and through the fissure between reality and impossibility slips the one thing I am afraid to believe.
I whirl around, nearly falling off the cot. My head spins, vision blurring from the sudden movement—but I don't care. I am searching for him. I have to… see.
And then I do.
He is looking at me.
Max.