I carefully laid her on the stretcher, trying not to disturb the fragile silence she had fallen into. Her body felt so light… not because it had lost weight, but because it trusted me completely, as if in this touch she had given everything: fear, pain, anxiety — leaving only a warm drop of trust between us, pulsing somewhere on the edge of despair.
We headed to the hospital. The ambulance seemed to glide through the night, and every turn felt like eternity. The headlights snatched pieces of reality from the darkness, and inside me, everything burned — worry and hope tangled into a tight knot pressing under my ribs, making it feel impossible to truly inhale or exhale.
Each kilometer passed was measured not by time, but by heartbeats, full of anxiety and helplessness. As if the road itself was leading us not merely to a building with white walls, but to the edge — between life and something irreversible.
I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as if there were live wires under my skin, under tension. I dialed Vi's number.
My heart pounded, wanting to burst out. So loud, so fierce, it seemed as though everyone could hear it: the driver, the paramedic, the streets, the houses… and maybe her — there, in her deep silence, where I so desperately wanted to be, even if only with my breath.
"Hello, Maxim, will you be home soon? Your mom and Mary miss you already," a man asked cheerfully and carelessly, his voice carrying familiar warmth and a slight smile, which I could no longer share.
"Vi, we have a problem. Don't tell Mom, but Katrin lost consciousness," I answered, holding back all the worry and fear squeezing my chest like an invisible hand.
"What? When did it happen? Where are you now?" His tone changed sharply, anxiety and concern bursting through his words, making me feel how serious the situation had become.
"We're heading to the hospital now. I'll send you the coordinates, and you can come. But please, don't tell Mom," I asked, trying to keep the situation under control, though everything inside me was boiling.
"All right, I'll wait for the coordinates and then come to you," he replied, his voice sounding confident, but I could feel the tension and readiness to help.
I ended the call — my fingers felt stuck on the screen, but I forced myself to put the phone back in my pocket. The world around felt muffled, unreal, as if wrapped in a haze. I reached for her hand — so fragile, almost weightless — and carefully checked her pulse. It was… weak, like the last flicker of a fire about to go out. But it was there. And that barely perceptible beating became everything to me, all my hope, the very essence of the moment. It seemed to whisper: "Your Katrin is still holding on. She's still here."
When we finally arrived, they took her inside quickly, efficiently, as if carrying away a piece of me. And me… they made me stay to fill out a form — this cold, soulless document, where the lines held neither soul nor meaning. Every word I wrote echoed with dull pain: name, date of birth, allergies… It all felt alien, out of place, as if paper could save her more than I could.
I didn't know how long it took. Five minutes? An eternity? When I finished and put the pen down, it felt like my fingers had gone numb — from tension, from helplessness. At that moment, Vi rushed into the emergency room. His steps were fast, almost abrupt, but in his eyes was pain — deep, anxious.
We embraced like true friends, without words. The hug was brief, strong, but it held everything: fear, understanding, anger at helplessness, and a desperate desire to be near, not let the world fall apart.
"Where is she?" he breathed, and in his voice trembled not just worry, but a need to be near, to act, to somehow share the unbearable unknown.
"The doctors are still with her," I answered, trying to speak evenly, but my voice betrayed me. Fatigue, like a leaden weight, dragged me down, but hope didn't let go.
We stood side by side, saying nothing, and in that silence, we heard how something inside each of us was breaking, while something else stubbornly held on. Because there is no other way.
We went outside — to where the day was bright and blinding, as if the light itself wanted to pull all the tension out of us. The fresh air rushed into our lungs, brushing our faces with coolness, burning our skin with the sun, as if reminding: you are alive, you are here, you are holding on. You have to breathe, even when everything inside burns with anxiety.
We stood silently, like two stones thrown out of the whirlpool of events, trying to calm down, catch some rhythm amid the chaos. I took a deep breath, and the cold in my lungs felt almost saving — like icy water, burning from the inside but returning me to reality. My heart pounded heavily, each beat like a step into nowhere. Thoughts tangled, merging into a shapeless mass, in which only one question sounded: what's happening to her? And a heaviness lay on my soul, as if someone placed a stone right on my chest — oppressive, viscous, uncertain, so long it seemed endless. Time flowed strangely — slowly, viscously, like honey in frost. Everything around us breathed silence, but inside — everything screamed. We just stood. Because there was nothing else to do. Only wait.
"She's strong, so don't even think about the worst," Vi said, trying to calm me.
His voice carried firm confidence, reinforced by genuine care, the kind you cannot fake — it is felt in the core. These words, like a warm blanket, slightly softened my anxiety-frozen heart, wrapping it in a thin, almost invisible but tangible veil of warmth. He looked at me seriously, without looking away, as if with his calm, slightly tired but strong gaze, he wanted to convey: "I'm here, you are not alone." In that look, there was support, like a quiet harbor in a stormy sea of fear.
"After we met again, I tormented her, reminding her of the past and what she had done," I confessed to him, feeling shame like a heavy stone pressing on my chest, slowly, relentlessly, suffocating me.
The words were difficult, every sound seemed to scratch my throat from within. But silence was even worse — it compressed everything alive inside, spreading like a black cloud. I needed someone to understand what I was going through. To share this burden, even for a moment.
"It was hard for both of you to forget. But now you're together again, and that's what matters most," the man said calmly, with a kind of adult wisdom, carrying the experience of what has been endured, as if he himself knew the value of what was lost and found again. His words did not feel like empty consolation, but rather a reminder that life gives second chances, and it is important not to miss them. It was like a quiet voice in the dark: not loud, but distinctly guiding forward.
"I feel like all this happened because I didn't appreciate Katrin, and now the Universe wants to take her from me," I told him about my fear.
In my voice trembles not only the fear of losing, but also deep guilt, as if it is a punishment for my past mistakes. As if I myself signed this sentence, not knowing that someday I will try to fix everything. My heart tightens with horror: what if I really deserve this? What if what I fear the most is not just a fantasy, but retribution?
"You are meant to be with each other, so no one will take each other away from you," he says confidently, looking me straight in the eyes.
His words sound like an anchor in a raging sea of panic—strong, calm, reassuring. At that moment, I feel grateful to him for the faith he keeps, even when my own is already starting to crack. His confidence is like a bridge over an abyss, which I still have to cross.
We return to the hospital after a couple of minutes. The spacious lobby, white walls, muted voices, and the smell of antiseptic—all of it presses down on my chest. The space seems too clean, sterile, and because of that, foreign. As if the air itself is saturated with anxiety and anticipation. Inside, the anxiety builds again—it rises from deep in my stomach, crawling upward, wrapping my spine with a cold snake.
A nurse approaches us, confident and businesslike. Her steps are precise, her gaze focused, and not a single emotion flickers across her face.
"You are asked to go to office twenty-eight to see your fiancée's attending physician," she informs me in a steady voice, showing no emotion. These words hit like a shot—short, sharp. My heart seems to stop for a moment, freezing, only to start beating faster afterward.
"Alright, I'll come now," I reply, trying not to reveal my inner turmoil. My voice trembles inside, but outwardly I maintain calm as best I can—like thin glass, ready to shatter at any moment. She nods and returns to the station without asking any unnecessary questions.
"Fiancée?" Vi repeats, raising an eyebrow with a slight, almost imperceptible smile, a mixture of surprise and curiosity. His face lights up for a moment with a warm glow, as if in this brief remark he sees something good amid all the darkness.
"That's what I told them. Actually, I already bought the ring and wanted to propose to Katrin, so I almost didn't lie," I explain to him, feeling a little embarrassed but at the same time a warm excitement from the confession.
It is the truth I have been moving toward for a long time, step by step. A dream so close—now suddenly hanging on the edge of an abyss. I feel a tremor rise inside me—of fear, but also of love.
"Alright, let's go to the doctor," he suggests, clearly wanting to be there in this important moment. His voice carries no pressure, only support—quiet, genuine.
"No, I'll go alone. I'll tell you everything afterward, and I won't hide anything, I promise," I say, trying to keep this moment personal, intimate.
I need to go through this myself. To hear everything from the doctor first. To process it through myself, as if only then I can truly understand what is happening. And accept it.
"Alright, I'll go get a coffee from the machine, and you go see the doctor. If anything—I'll be here in the lobby," he agrees without extra questions, giving me space but at the same time staying nearby, like a true friend. His simple words are like a strong hand on my shoulder—reliable and calm, even when everything inside is collapsing.
I walk to my beloved's attending physician. My mood is not positive—inside, a gray fog coils, anxious and viscous—it slowly fills my chest, constricting my breath. Every thought, like a snake, tries to bite, plunging a poisonous sting of panic, leading me into the darkest scenarios. But I stubbornly hold myself together, like a person walking on thin ice, trying not to look down, not to listen to the fragile cracks beneath my feet. But I decide not to imagine anything until I meet the doctor.
Knocking, I enter the office. The light is dim, as if the air itself tries to mute everything unnecessary, leaving only the essence. On the desk, folders lie in neat stacks, like silent witnesses to someone's fate, and there is a faint smell of coffee and medicine in the air—a mix of alertness and anxiety, typical for places where important decisions are made.
"I was waiting for you, please sit," he says, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.
His voice is calm, professionally restrained, as if every day he speaks to people on the edge, but in this restraint there is fatigue and understanding—as in someone who often delivers news that shatters people inside. His eyes are not cold; they carry that very weight borne by those who know too much.