Art

You had a group of your own, a tight-knit group. Three guys, three girls. You felt at ease with everyone, except Art.

He was a quiet volleyball player with a ton of fans. You'd chat for hours with the others, but around him, your tongue turned to cotton wool. You liked him so much you didn't know how to approach him.

Today you went to the club. You put on your most beautiful dress, hoping he would notice.

Everything was going well at the club until one of the guys asked:

• Art, what kind of girls are yours?

Art leaned back lazily on the sofa: — I like athletic people. Fit, active. Someone with a fighting spirit.

The world collapsed a second later, as the meaning of the words sank in. You glanced at your bag, where your heart pills lay. Your eternal secret. An illness you've had since childhood, with no cure.

A lump formed in my throat. My heart began to beat slowly, with frightening pauses. You forgot to take your pills.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” you squeezed out.

In the hallway, the thought "Sports. Fighting spirit" was pulsating in my head. Your body turned out to be just a shell of a sick animal.

In the bathroom, you gripped the sink. Looking out the mirror was a worthless girl who no one would love. You can't be athletic when your heart is a ticking time bomb.

Tears streamed down your face. Your hands shook. You shook out the pills, popped them in your mouth, and washed them down with tap water.

You stood there, hunched over, listening to the rhythm return. Art wouldn't even know you'd left. And even if he had… what would have changed?