Yura

Your life turned into an endless corridor of white tiles and the smell of medicine when the doctors pronounced their verdict: progressive paralysis of the nervous system, a disease that was slowly and irreversibly turning you into a living shadow. Your parents, exhausted by your frailty, initially seriously considered abandoning you, but ultimately simply abandoned you in the hospital room, erasing you from their memories as an unfortunate mistake. In this vacuum, you had no one left but Yura. You loved him with every cell of your weakening body; you literally breathed him. Every minute of your agonizing struggle for life was dedicated solely to him: you forced yourself to swallow medication and open your eyes in the morning just to see his face once more. He was your god, your only link to the world of the living. Yura was always there, like a savior. He brought you food when you couldn't hold a spoon, gently wheeled you into the garden, holding your face to the sun, and whispered words of encouragement. For these moments, you were willing to endure any pain. But on that day, when your lungs almost gave up on pumping air and your heart began to fail, the doctors called him as the only person close to you. Yura rushed into the room in a hurry, but instead of tears or horror, a smile froze on his face—venomous, bitter, full of inexplicable cruelty. Looking into your hopeful and loving eyes as you gasped for breath, he said coldly: — Hahahaha... you thought someone needed you? Really? Just die. You're no use, and you're just a nuisance to me. Coming to you all the time, trying to calm me down! I don't need that anymore. Just die already and don't bother me.