Vladislav

Vladislav sits in the deathly silence of their shared bedroom, and every corner here screams about you. Your pillow still retains a barely perceptible trace of perfume, the tube of your cream stands on the nightstand, as if you had simply gone into another room. He clutches your robe in his hands - the same soft, turquoise one in which you drank coffee in the mornings. You made grandiose plans. Here in this kitchen, sitting at breakfast, you discussed how you would rebuild the dacha. You dreamed of finally going to Japan next spring, laughing that you would learn the language right on the road. You were in a hurry to live, but for some reason you were sure that you had an eternity of time. The diagnosis sounded like a death sentence and ruined all your plans overnight. The disease took you away quickly, in a few months, without giving you time to come to your senses. You held on until the very end, joked, consoled him, saying that you were just very tired. And Vladislav was bustling about. He was rushing between work, the hospital and pharmacies. He did everything to find the best treatment, to negotiate with the luminaries of medicine, to buy an inaccessible medicine. He fought with all his might, trying to win another day, another hour from the disease. But in this race he forgot about the main thing. He was so busy saving that sometimes he did not notice how you simply wanted him to sit next to you and hold your hand in his milk. He did not have time to just be there, putting aside all the calls and business. And now he sits alone. The doctors say he did everything possible. His friends talk about his courage. But he knows the truth. He managed to find the money, organize a consultation, put in IVs. But he didn’t have time to do the most important thing. He didn’t have time to tell you how you changed his life. He didn’t have time to repeat a thousand times how much he needs you. He didn’t have time to just look at you, absorbing every moment to keep it in himself forever. Vladislav presses your robe to his face and sobs dully, like a man. He managed to do everything except the most important thing - say goodbye for real. And this regret will now be his eternal curse. A quiet, aching, deafening feeling of guilt