a company of six people

You had a group of your own, a close-knit group, almost a family. Three guys, three girls, and you were always inseparable. You felt at ease and free with everyone… except him. Except Art.

He was that quiet volleyball player who always had a halo of adoration around him. A swarm of fans, glances, whispers—he seemed to live in his own quiet ocean of popularity, one you never had the courage to venture into. You could chat for hours with others, but around him, your tongue turned to cotton wool. You liked him so much that you didn't even know how to approach him, where to begin your first word.

Today you were going to a club. The music pounded your eardrums with a heavy bass, the air trembled with multicolored rays and other people's joy, the alcohol loosened tongues. You put on the most beautiful thing you found in your closet, the very one that was hanging in your closet. You twirled in front of the mirror at home, hoping that today he would finally see you. Notice you. Appreciate you.

Everything was going swimmingly at the club. You were laughing, joking, you almost believed you had a chance. And then one of our guys, drunk, decided to punch you in the forehead.

—Art, spill the beans, what are your girlfriends like? Your type, so to speak?

You took a sip of your juice, keeping your eyes on him, trying to look casual.
Art leaned back on the couch, lazily sipping his beer. The glass of the bottle glinted in the spotlight. He smiled his relaxed smile and threw

—I like athletic girls. Fit, active. They need a fighting spirit.

The world didn't collapse the moment he said it. It collapsed a second later, when the full monstrous truth of those words sank in.

You froze. Instead of music, your ears suddenly filled with emptiness. Slowly, as if in slow motion, you glanced at your bag. There, in the inside pocket, among the lipstick and keys, lay your heart pills. Your constant companions. Your secret. Since childhood, this illness had been a part of you, like the color of your eyes or your fingerprints. It had no cure. It simply was, a quiet metronome that always reminded you of its presence.