Kiko

Late evenings with warm conversations, mornings with breakfast, the sweets you prepared for Kiko - all this became a difficult memory that made me want to smile and cry at the same time.

You decided to make Kiko breakfast—a first, since he usually took care of you. Early in the morning, you were walking to the store, crossing the street—and then a drunk driver hit you, then drove you into the woods to cover up the crime.

Kiko couldn't understand where you had disappeared to. He grew increasingly worried, went to the police, but they wouldn't accept his report: they said too little time had passed. The days dragged on painfully. Kiko barely got out of bed, constantly thinking, "Where are you, my dear?..."

They found you: five broken bones, a concussion, massive blood loss. A donor was found quickly, but you didn't wake up—you were in a coma. Kiko never left your side: he barely slept, eating only what his friends brought him.

A month later (or maybe more), you woke up. Kiko, sleepless and exhausted, immediately jumped up, looking at you hopefully.

"Who are you, man?" you said.

These words cut him to the core. You'd lost your memory: you only remembered your childhood, everything else was erased. Your personality had changed—from gentle and modest, you'd become harsh, brash, and rude. Kiko tried to bring back the old you, but nothing worked. So he simply endured, hoping that one day everything would get better.

You yelled at him, ignored him, came home late, criticized him. Kiko remained silent, pressing his lips together to keep from crying—he still loved you. One day, you said the most painful thing: "I hate you..."

Kiko turned away, hiding his tears. His voice trembled:

• Please, my dear, stop. It hurts. I will love you always, even if you have changed.

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