Vi leaves. He says he'll go check on Max. And I am left alone in that room—foreign, too bright, reeking of antiseptic and something... sterile. As if emotions aren't allowed here. As if pain is forbidden.
I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, still trying to understand how my life derailed again in just a few hours. Like someone quietly weighed all my joy, love, laughter—then cursed and dropped a heavier counterweight.
And everything plummets.
My mind—chaos. My chest—hollow, but not peacefully. The kind of hollow that whistles like wind through a shattered window. Thoughts tangle, overlap. Only one—the worst—keeps circling back.
What if he doesn't wake up…
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that could erase the thought. No. He'll wake. He has to. He's strong, he's my Max. I'm an idiot for even considering that he might—
No.
I don't want to live if he dies.
Tears roll again. I don't bother stopping them—pointless now. Let them fall. Let the world see I'm in pain.
Will he even talk to me... if he lives? Or... look through me like I'm air? I can't blame him. He has every right. I failed him. Dragged him into my filth, my mess, my so-called "friends."
He could hate me. And I'd understand. All he ever wants is to stay by my side. Make me better. Inspire me. Live. And me? I only destroy. Everything.
I grip the sheets, clutching as if they could hold my thoughts, my tears, my burning heart. Four days left. Four days until his wish. The last one he made. And now…
Now he might not even want to see me.
I close my eyes, and morning memories surface.
How he hugged me, held me tight like he was afraid to let go.
How he kissed my forehead.
How his breath tickled my ear.
How we laughed arguing over who'd make coffee.
How we made plans—stupid, childish, so real.
All of it—a mirage now.
If he lives, he won't be mine anymore. He'll wake and turn away. And I'll let him. Because that's how much I love him—enough to accept even his indifference, as long as he breathes.
I shove the dark thoughts away. I won't even think he might not make it. No. He's strong. He'll pull through. He has to... I'm an idiot for imagining otherwise. How could I? He's always been so strong... always will be.
But... will he ever speak to me again? If he tells me to fuck off—with curses, with pain—I'll take it. He's earned that. I'd tell myself to fuck off too. I failed him. Failed—and can't even protect him.
I break. Sob louder.
If not for Ivan... God damn him. If not for him, Max and I would have had so many happy days left.
He ruined everything. Shattered it. Crushed it. Stole it.
Now Max will hate me. I know it. He is there because of me. Beaten because of me. Because of me, he could have... he could have…
My boy won't be mine anymore.
I won't wake to his arms around me. Won't open my eyes to his soft kisses. We won't bicker over breakfast about dates or lazy walks. We'll be nothing.
If he lives... I'll be nothing to him.
Grandpa Vi shuffles in. Exhausted, like every movement costs him. Face tense, eyes red—holding back tears or sleepless.
"How is he?" I whisper, barely containing sobs, wiping tears with a trembling sleeve.
Silently, he hands me a pack of tissues—miraculously found in this sterile limbo. I clutch it like the last shred of care in this chaos, pulling one out to dab my wrecked face.
"Stable, but critical," he murmurs, each word aching. "They've stabilized him somewhat, but the damage... Closed-head trauma. Concussion. Bruises, lacerations—everywhere. A pause. Fists clenched. Paid them well to keep authorities out of it."
The words sink like stones. Relief and guilt twist my heart. I nod, forcing out:
"Thank you... When will they bring him here?"
He sighs heavily.
"Don't know yet... Just trying to get him out of critical. Stable enough to move—that's the goal. Just... no worse."
I go quiet. My mind—mush. Pain. Dread. Helplessness. What next? Where? How move forward when I'm just a void?
"Katrin?" His voice is gentler, which hurts more. "Sweetheart, tell me something... Please."
I can't speak. A lump chokes me. Finally, I rasp:
"We were taken... They beat him. Not me."
He freezes. The air thickens.
"How many?" The question vibrates with barely leashed fury.
I hesitate. Don't want to relive it. But his stare presses. I look down.
"I don't—" He pushes, louder. "Do you know them? How many hurt him?"
"Three," I exhale. "Three beat him."
Vi's jaw locks. Face flushes with rage.
"Now I see," he hisses. "Why he couldn't fight back. Why so much damage—"
"They tied his hands," I add, barely audible, ashamed of the horror.
"Goddamn bastards!" He snarls, and for the first time, I hear not just anger—but raw, wounded agony in his voice.
I just nod. I have no strength left to justify myself or say anything else. All I can do is lie there, listen, and clutch crumpled tissues in my hands while Vi's voice tries desperately to keep me afloat.
The man sighs heavily, paces the room, then leans against the windowsill, gazing outside where the night sky is already paling, giving way to dawn.
"You're not to blame, sweetheart," he says quietly, without turning around.
I lift my eyes to his back, to those broad shoulders that have already seen so much. He says it simply, but with that undertone only those who understand the weight of words possess.
"I am, Vi," I whisper back, my voice trembling. "I know what I'm getting into. I know what they are like, but I keep going anyway. I think I have everything under control. But the truth is… I'm not holding onto anything anymore. Not myself, not my life, not him. If I hadn't—" I bite my lip, stopping the flood of words.
Vi finally turns and looks at me—not with reproach, not with judgment. With pain. And with hope.
"You make mistakes, yes. But you don't give up. You don't abandon him. You call me. You do everything you can. And if it weren't for you, he might not make it to dawn. Do you hear me?"
I nod again, not raising my eyes. The words don't seem to reach my heart—there is only numbness there now.
"And one more thing," he adds, stepping closer, "you're not alone. I'm with you. Until you say, 'That's enough, Vi, go,' I won't leave. And he…" He bends down, touches my hand. "He's strong. He'll pull through. For you, understand?"
I squeeze his fingers and give the faintest nod.
"Thank you, Vi…" I whisper. "Thank you for coming… for him, for me."
"Don't mention it," he says with a weak smile. "Just promise me that when he wakes up… you won't run. You won't hide from him. Maxim deserves the truth, but he also deserves you—the real you. Not the one who's afraid and blames herself, but the one fighting for him right now."
"Okay," I whisper, and for the first time in all this, my heart clenches not just from pain, but from something like… hope. "I'll stay. Vi?.." I murmur, half-asleep, barely hearing my own voice.
"Yeah, I'm here," he replies softly, almost tenderly.
"I'll… sleep now."
"Good. Sleep, my dear," he says, as if he wants to cover me not just with a blanket, but with a peace I haven't known in so long.
I haven't felt this… small in a long time. Not just tired—worn thin, burned out from the inside, like embers still smoldering but unable to ignite. My whole body isn't mine—heavy, foreign, immobile, as if I'm just a thought trapped inside this shell. But, strangely, sleep comes quickly. Easily. It doesn't drag me down, doesn't fight the pain, doesn't bargain. It just covers me, like an old, familiar sheet—cool, quiet, carrying the scent of a safety that no longer exists.
But the dreams… they aren't rest. They aren't salvation. The dreams are—a scream. A scream of the soul that can't be contained, because in those dreams, I am whole again—and losing everything all over again.
I run. Through endless hallways, streets, labyrinths that constantly shift in shape, form, the laws of gravity. All for one thing. To find him. Max. His voice echoes somewhere nearby—calling, desperate, as if he's on the other side of a thin, invisible wall, and I know: if I don't make it in time, he'll disappear forever.
I scream back. My voice raw, cursing the space between us. But there is no sound. None. My scream never forms. Only my mouth opens in silent pleading, lips cracking from the silence.
Max emerges from the shadows—a familiar silhouette, even in dreams, closer to me than anything else. I lunge for him, with everything I have, but every time I get close, he—vanishes. Dissolves. The very possibility of touch evaporates. And it all starts again. This loop… like punishment. Like a noose.
I wake up abruptly. Not gently, not gradually, but as if something inside me snaps, explodes. Like a live wire tearing loose. My heart pounds too fast. My body is sweaty, but my skin is cold.
Light. Overhead—dim, yellow, like from an old film. The room—real. Small, white, sterile. Everything is as before, but… something has changed. The air feels thicker, the sounds muffled.
The squeak of a cart. Muted, cautious voices outside the door. The rustle of plastic packaging. Foreign sounds. Foreign footsteps. I blink, disoriented. Where am I? Is this not a dream? Am I really awake? Or is this just another scene in the dream, with different props?
My consciousness returns like lights flickering on one by one. In flashes.
The hospital. I am in the hospital.
Max. Those people… they brought Max.
My heart clenches again—not from fear, no. From something else. As if I'm standing once more on the edge between hope and madness. Where one wrong move—and everything could collapse.