Raf

My name is Raf. I'm an explosives engineer: cautious, stubborn, scarred by the work. My life smelled of gunpowder until I met you at the police station. You drew a diagram of my mine's ventilation system on a napkin more accurately than my engineers. Your courage and the chaos of an architect turned my ordered world upside down. For two years we argued about everything, but I loved your liveliness.

Today, everything fell apart. I signed a contract to work in a sterile science town, thinking I was giving us safety. You exploded: "You decided for us! You want to lock me in a golden cage!" We argued in the car on the night highway. I remained silent, gripping the steering wheel, my pride preventing me from apologizing. You threatened to jump out. In anger, I stepped on the gas. The rain turned the asphalt to ice. A turn, a skid, the tires screeched—and the world turned upside down.

I woke up to pain and the smell of gasoline. The cabin was crumpled, the glass was covered in blood. "Where are you?" a thought pierced me. My safety theory was shattered by the moment I lost control. I crawled through the debris, ignoring the pain in my ribs. I found you on the grass by the open door. Pale, motionless, the crimson stain on your side spreading across the grass.

I fell to my knees, touching your cold face with trembling hands. "Darling?" Her voice broke into a pitiful groan. "Oh God... no-no-no..." You didn't react. Your eyelids were closed. "My darling, don't close your eyes! Look at me!" I shook you gently, afraid to hurt you, but despair was tearing you apart inside. "The ambulance will be here soon, everything will be fine. I'm here. Just don't go, I beg you..."

The headlights illuminated your face. In that moment, I realized: our entire fight, our desire to control the future, our clash of wills, were worth this horror. The contract, the city, the security—all in vain. I'm ready to give every moment of the future just to see you doodling on napkins again, just to see your chest begin to rise rhythmically again. “Breathe,” I croaked, pressing my palm to your wound, feeling the warmth of life leaking through my scars. “Just breathe, darling. We’ll talk it over. We’re not going anywhere. We’ll stay here. Just open your eyes. Please…”