Heart-Shaped Box

Today is Friday. The second week of May is nearing its end. Did something happen? Yes, but nothing worth mentioning separately. On Monday, I came home joyful, riding high, so to speak. On Tuesday—the opposite, my mood was in the gutter. On Wednesday—nothing special, just another day, the inner needle hovering somewhere in the middle. On Thursday—down in the dumps again. But not today. Today was a great day. Today was Friday.

Even the weather was favorable this day. Finally, there was no cursed heat smothering the entire city, and even the dirty-yellow sun was securely hidden behind the clouds. On the way back, only a fresh wind greeted me, bending the trees and sweeping away the dust. Ever since the pipe-rolling plant near our housing complex was "closed indefinitely," the air outside became much easier to breathe. Today, the wind blew so fiercely that it reminded me of early February. Quarantine, twenty-degree frost, and the few people outside wearing sharply overpriced masks. The ground froze so solid that you might as well have been digging into the heaped concrete slabs meant for the walls dividing the city’s districts.

And when the pale sun set, the moon rose. Along with it came packs of stray dogs, driven out by the cold. They were joined by the icy glint of a razor-sharp wind, driving smoky snow along the ground, right above the asphalt. That wind was invigorating, reaching the farthest corners of the lungs with every breath. That wind carried with it the former grandeur of the frosts that once put us in our place.

“— We’ll bring order to this land in a matter of weeks.”
“— We laugh in your face.”
— The Riders of the Cold.

I stared at that small yellow moon, remembering a completely different one. A Moon with a capital M. The Moon from an old dream.

No matter where you looked—grass stretched beneath your feet everywhere. And many tables. People sat at those tables. Night, yet everything was perfectly visible. This wasn’t the white night—this was a Moon the size of a football field hanging over the world. So close you could clearly see all its craters, volcanoes, pockmarks, and rough edges. Not like the Sun, which you can’t look at without tears, which forces you to shield your eyes. This was a different Moon, one that demanded no protection because no one was trying to take anything from you. Warmth, silence, grass underfoot, and a person sitting across the table from you. Who was it? I could never make them out.

But now, I’m starting to guess.

Two worlds, two moons. Right now, I’m standing under the worse one. This moon hangs somewhere high above us, letting the wind rage. A car speeds by nearby. A siren. Soon, planes will be spraying the city from the air—quarantine after all. Time to head home. The air is fresh and frosty, but I don’t want to catch a cold. Or worse, pneumonia.

A nasty thing, that. The kind that leaves you choking on coughs in the evenings, wracking your insides.

In the distance, a dog let out a pitiful howl…

That’s how February began. Soon, the quarantine will end. Soon, I’ll go back to school. Soon, changes will come. And at the very top of the spiral, I’ll find myself too. I’ll step up and look down with interest. Carefully, I’ll start descending. A little more time will pass, and I’ll push caution aside, spinning faster and faster in tightening circles. Sometimes I’ll slow down and ask myself: “Why?” Or: “What for?” And most importantly: “What will you do if you win?” Because you’ll have to do something. And you have to think ahead. There are no save points here, no safety nets.

I believe that what’s happening now is beautiful. But not in this form, and not for me.

Still, these are just fleeting thoughts—the weak voice of reason. And its weakness only grew as the depths increased.

Let's say the starting point was February and a faint curiosity. And I was listening to myself.

"Yes, of course. I agree. What? We'll do just that."
March. Free-floating thoughts. Sympathy.
"Yes, yes... I'm listening. Listening. I'm quite focused, actually."

April. I talk to myself often, as always. I speak, but don't listen. And when I do listen, I don't follow.

"He's on my side."
Yes, hearing that was unexpected. I'll gladly be on your side. Just don't go overboard. I'm already on your side. Without an invitation, it just happened that way.

"I'm here. I remember. I'm still okay. No, I'm not obsessed. Well, maybe just a little. But I'm still listening to you."

Welcome to May. I'm in a box. Deep and for the long haul.
I need you.
Who do you need? Oh yes, I have doubts and suspicions.

It tears me up inside. I don't even want to think. Thoughts breach my defenses on their own, slapping my shoulders and yanking off my headphones.
"To hell with it. Let it speak."

The wind burst onto the balcony, slamming the door loudly. Yes, while reminiscing about February—about the beginning of this path where something first glimmered—I'd already made the rest of the way home, gone upstairs, entered the apartment, dropped my backpack, sat on a chair, propped my elbows on the table, and buried my hands in my hair.

"—Not even going to have some tea?"
"—Not with you."

Today was a good day. After all, it's not every day you hear from the subject of your cunning plans that you're, essentially, pretty great—and, frankly, the most normal deskmate around. That last word made me cringe. But it's a status, not a brand. It's fixable. This can be handled. There are no limits—the question is just how high we can climb.

By the way, I'll use that line in my exam essay. Sounds nice and truthful, I think. And since we're on the subject—I'll get an A.

I had to sweat it out, of course. Twenty-seven degrees in the shade and a black suit—no joke. But that’s all beside the point. In passing, I smoothly replied that sitting next to her was easy and pleasant. And she herself is deeply pleasing to me. But I kept that part to myself, and the fact that I did only made it sting more.

"—So why are you still at the bottom if there’s no limit? Why haven’t you risen yet?!"

Shreds. Questions like that tear me to shreds. There are so many of these lethally uncomfortable questions. You hear that mocking tone and immediately brace to dodge the answer or lie through your teeth.

"—By the way, you could’ve walked down the avenue holding hands. Just saying. But you didn’t lift a finger for that. Funny how you deceive yourself, making plans you’ll never act on. Pathetic, aren’t you?"

I paced the room.

"—It’s not laziness. You’re just afraid. Of everyone, everything, everywhere—except the cozy reflection of the world inside your head. Then again, it’s not all bad. She thinks highly of you. And what do you think of her? Heh. She probably has no idea."

Sometimes I hate myself. Those heavy little moments. You look down on yourself and loathe what you see. At the same time, you feel small and wretched. Then pride and self-respect wake up, driving away pity and hatred like wet rags. In my case, self-hatred is clearly pointless. I’m no ideal, and even if I were, my fate would hardly be enviable, I’m sure.

But right now, I hated myself. Fear. Indecision. Insecurity. And so on, and so forth. Vile flaws that seem to cancel out all the good. The good? What does it matter how good you are? That’s just how it works—you’re either praised while your faults are ignored, or criticized while your merits go unseen.

I stood by the closet, pressing my head against the shelf and holding the door open with one hand. I wasn’t about to hit myself. It was a gesture of silent despair.

Completely silent—let’s leave the soundless screams into the void and the teeth marks on the blanket for a fifth-grade child.

The door to the room opened, and Dad/Batya appeared on the threshold. As often happens, his timing was impeccable—meaning, completely wrong. Whatever. I took off my suit, changed into home clothes, and followed his gesture. And what about the closet and that strange pose? Nothing special, really. I was just estimating the gap between the door and the cabinet wall.

I lied.

I don’t want to lie to my parents anymore. But isn’t this kind of lie better than the truth: "I was seriously considering slamming my head with the closet door out of self-loathing"?

We walked into the kitchen. Again. I was calm, even somewhat sluggish. After the emotional flare-up, the familiar exhaustion had rolled in. I sat back down on the edge of the little couch in the corner—a well-worn position. Only this time, the kitchen table was completely empty. No shared meal to disguise the intention behind this conversation.

Alright, brace yourself. Some unexpected question was coming. "Some"—because if I could predict it, it wouldn’t be unexpected.

I looked Dad straight in the face. A practiced, composed gaze. Concentrated calm. The look he returned seemed to say: "Your eyes aren’t calm, just tired. And you don’t look at peace—just hollowed out, running on fumes. I see huge internal investments, poor moment-to-moment execution, and barely any return."

And as if continuing that silent exchange:

"—Do you love her?"

First, I sharply suppressed the last flickers of agitation and surprise. Sure, they still flashed in my eyes, but I wasn’t trying to hide anything anymore. Then I yawned apathetically, rubbed my teary eyes, and scratched my head—my hair a complete mess by now. What the hell, huh?

Yeah, I’d gotten pretty stuck here, accelerating on that spiral. Fell in love hard enough to short-circuit most of my sanity safeguards, if you will. Honestly, I was exhausted—because I’d been holding it all in, and still was. I also hadn’t eaten properly in days. And forget about mentioning the sleepless nights, her occupying my thoughts, or her name popping up everywhere. My imagination had dulled, by the way. The scent, though—that still delighted me just as much. Though it seemed less aggressive now. Didn’t invade my nostrils as forcefully, while still retaining all its brilliance.

I didn’t tell him any of that. Sometimes heavy silence is enough, I think.

Dad, apparently, disagreed.

He gave me a disapproving look that teetered on the edge of pity—something he always despised. Pushing himself up, Dad poured water from a bottle into his glass.

"Honestly, I wish you loved your country this much," he said, then downed the water in one gulp.

Oh, you're good. No need to lecture the machinist while breathing down his neck. Just toss a few more logs into the furnace—that'll do it.

Go on, engine of my mind! Let your pistons roar until the walls of this box tremble!

I was furious. What a cheap shot. His words scalded me, like careless water spilled on searing stones—now choking steam rose with a hellish hiss.

"You couldn't even throw me a conversational lifeline? And to think today started so well, but you've dragged it down to the baseboards with your accusations. Again and again, all these reproaches, reminders, condemnations. Draining, bloodsucking, slowly killing me. Enough."

He fell silent. Let people speak, not the voices inside them.

"Love? I could—I want—to love this whole world, not just some arbitrary borders called 'my country.' What even is 'my country'? Yes, I was born and live here by chance. So what? Why should I love it? Why should I be proud of it? Why should I die for it, in the end?"

Dad just listened. Did I imagine it, or was that shock flickering in his eyes?

"This patriotism of yours—what vile nonsense, I swear! 'Motherland,' 'Fatherland'—what do these words even mean?" I gestured wildly, encircling the air with my hands. "The planet, the Earth—this is our homeland. Enough of pledging loyalty to scraps of land beneath painted rags! There’s one world, and one people in it. Isn’t that beautiful? A world without states or nations, united for a better future for all humanity—no worship of 'our' territories or tribes! That’s the world I’m ready to love, wholly and completely. And you’re stuck on these petty distinctions? It’s low. Pathetic—"

"—to love and build a future only for some elite few, defined by borders."

"You don’t—"

"Let me finish, because I’m not done—"

None of this made sense. Why did these conversations electrify me so? Here, now, I was bold. Powerful.

Was I actually achieving something? Fine—seize the moment. Revel in it.

"—As I was saying, I’m not finished. Or… what did you want to tell me? Another worn-out tale of dirty work? How the state hid behind the word 'Motherland' to send men to kill? Or how the Empire fell in November ’99, twenty years ago?"

Dad was catatonic. His body rigid, hands twitching. And his eyes… his eyes glistened. I’d never seen that before.

"It… wasn’t like that at all," he began hoarsely. His shattered voice hissed; his breaths whistled.

I didn’t care. The dam had burst. The engine roared, flames spewing from exhaust pipes. The box trembled, walls shaking.

I felt victorious. Dad muttered incoherently, his words collapsing into gibberish. Tears—or sweat?—dripped onto the table.

Tears, sweat—to hell with it! I stood. Didn’t look back. Walked calmly to the bathroom. No coward’s retreat with spilled water and faltering steps—just steady strides and the intoxicating rush of triumph. Today, I won. No need to think like a winner. No need to act like one. Just start winning.

I entered the bathroom. Turned the cold tap. Splashed my face. "Him" kept whispering that I needed to decide. Fine. I decided. To hell with hesitation, doubt, fear. Tomorrow, I’d act. Tell her the truth—boldly, openly, to her face. However it ended didn’t matter. The point was: I’d have no regrets.

Or so I thought.

Need I say I was wrong?

I looked into the mirror. Droplets of icy water trailed down my face. Three sharp, deliberate strikes against the sink. Three words.

"Just. Do. It."

The engine roared uncontrollably. Flames tore through the box from within. A deafening screech ripped through the air. The walls swayed, then collapsed, cracking the asphalt beneath. The box was no more. Now, only the concrete boundaries of a former prison remained—and a mind ablaze.

And then, an extraordinary lightness. When you make a definitive decision with absolute certainty, there’s a calm, a relief. I hadn’t fallen asleep this peacefully in a long time.

I was a man on the spiral. Finally, I stopped halfway. I stepped to the edge. Far below, water glimmered. Waves crashed against what seemed like the walls of a well. Down there, the spiral dissolved, its gaps vanishing. Left and right—nothing new, just the same whirlwind. I took a deep breath.

A leap, and suddenly I was falling, streamlined by the wind. Freefall from such a height—an indescribable feeling. Water sprayed against my face. A few seconds—and I pierced the surface, sending up a cascade of splashes, a cloud of mist.

I never knew how to swim.