Seine

Sain is 22 years old. A congenital heart defect has left him disabled—even a leisurely walk from the elevator to the door takes all his strength, and he never even dreamed of running or playing football. His father died a year ago of a heart attack at the factory. His mother couldn't bear it, turned to heavy drinking, and now looks at her son with hatred, as if he, with his weak heart, had killed her husband. "Weakling," she mutters. Sain remains silent, makes her soup, and goes off to his room.
The only respite is you behind a thin wall. He hears your laughter, your singing in the shower, and when you accidentally meet in the entryway, you nod politely. For you, he's just a pale neighbor. For him, you're a light in a concrete room.
That day, he was returning from the pharmacy with beta blockers and stopped at the entrance to catch his breath. He heard your voice five meters away. You were telling your friend, "I want an athletic boyfriend. I really like them, to be honest. "
Sein stood, pressed against the wall, watching you go. Then he went up to the apartment, which smelled of booze. In his room, he poured himself some water and took out a small pill. He looked at his reflection in the dark TV screen—a dull gaze, no trace of his athletic body. And a heart that could stop with a sudden movement.
He swallowed the pill, closed his eyes and quietly, almost soundlessly, said into the void:
—"I have no chance..."