OW
Joy does not come easily. Not since the doctor's been gone. A storm has taken root in Aban’s mind—wild, desperate, and unrelenting. It howls through his thoughts, rattles in his chest, and refuses to quiet.
Even now, there are moments where he forgets. His hand drifts across the sheets at night, searching for the steady thrum of the doctor’s pulse, but his fingers find only emptiness. His traitorous soul pleads for a heart that no longer beats. His flesh aches for the warmth of a body long gone. His ears strain for a voice that will never again break the silence.
And still, night after night, he reaches out.
He drinks just to feel some kind of warmth, but it never lasts. The burn fades too quickly, leaving only the hollow ache in his chest, which Ivo used to fill. He wears the doctor's clothes until they hang off him like a second skin, fabric worn thin from desperate hands clinging to what little is left. He buries his face in the collars, inhales deep, searching for a scent that time is stealing from him. But it’s fading—just like everything else.
So he watches those stupid telenovelas the doctor loved so much, letting the overly dramatic sobs and badly written love confessions fill the silence. He scoffs at their predictability, but still, he watches. Every night. The same episodes. The same storylines. He waits for the doctor’s laughter, for the amused sound he used to give at every plot twist. But it never comes. It never will.
And still, he watches.
Every morning, he makes two cups of coffee—one for himself, one for the doctor. He doesn’t think about it; his hands move on their own, guided by muscle memory, by a love that refuses to rot. He steams the Austrian goat’s milk just the way the doctor liked it, watching the froth rise, the scent curling into the air like a ghost.
And then he drinks them both.
He never liked the taste of the doctor’s order, but that doesn’t matter to him. He forces it down, warm and bitter, a punishment, a prayer. At least it makes the absence feel less real and stifling. Some mornings, he catches himself placing the second cup across the table, waiting. Staring at it, watching the steam dissipate into nothing.
He knows that nobody will drink the coffee other than him. But still, he waits.
He tells himself that if he cries enough, if he drowns himself in grief, maybe the universe will take pity and return what it stole from him. He prays—kneeling on the floor and sobbing until his ribs ache, until his throat is raw and his lungs rattle with the weight of unshed screams. His hands tremble; they clutch at empty air and desperately try to grasp something that isn’t there.
Aban was never a religious man. He never believed in gods or fate or miracles. Yet still, he prays. As if grief alone could bridge the chasm between life and death.
He is a dancer whose body moves to a rhythm no one can hear, spinning in an endless, futile waltz and waiting for a partner who will never return. A singer whose voice has been stolen. A scientist who holds all the secrets of the universe in his hands but cannot make a single soul understand one.
Nobody could ever begin to understand what he lost—what he’s condemned to live without, day after day.
The warmth of gentle, calloused hands. Unspoken adoration wrapped in sharp edges, tangled with beauty, anger, and pain. The quiet comfort of soft evenings he spent crocheting, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows as Ivo’s fingers worked deftly, repairing one of his creations—his eyes alight with focus, the hum of his breath filling the room.
Now, there is only silence. The void of his absence echoes in every corner of the space they once shared, the unspoken promises of things left unfinished. And Aban is left, holding on to the fragments of a life that no longer exists, his heart a hollow ache, unable to fill the space where Ivo once stood. And yet, in the stillness, the memories cling to him, jagged like glass shards embedded in skin. He can almost hear Ivo’s voice in the soft creak of the floorboards and feel his presence in the cold drafts that slip through the cracks. But it fades. Always fades.