Late Goodbye

The awakening was an unhealthy one. The Monday sun was knocking on the window, trying to draw my eyes to it. Useless. Only the alarm clock under my left ear managed to wake me. Seven in the morning. I desperately wanted to sleep—otherwise, everything was fine. The sensations from the dream had dulled; it felt like it had happened long ago, as if it hadn’t even been me.

Washing up, brushing teeth, tea. Tea became the first connecting thread. Deep inside, a string twitched, and I remembered the scent of strong brew, the splash of tea in my stomach, tea down my collar and on my head. Even the lake in the green world had turned into tea.

The trees in our yard had also turned green. A decent imitation. They’re trying their best—I believe in them.

The tea and the lake dragged behind them an entire thread of last night’s dream. Like a magician pulling a string of multicolored scarves from his throat, the episodes of last night emerged one by one, refreshed their faded hues, and settled somewhere near the main stage of memory. They propped themselves up, looking at me smugly.

The sequence didn’t end with the beginning of the dream—it kept flowing. Finally, Saturday landed on the stage with a loud thud, the wooden supports creaking mercilessly. And then came the sticky, dripping anxiety, sending a fine tremble through me with its cold droplets.

I was already approaching the school. The shivering was just the morning chill. The thermometer read +26°C.

You know what the main mistake was? While anxiety and tension filled half of me, the other half was completely drowned in confidence. Naturally, they couldn’t mix. The confidence was in the fact that my actions, my words, would change something. I didn’t know whether the consequences would be good or bad for me personally. I only had no doubt about the rightness of what I said and the certainty that something would change. That confidence had turned into an axiom. I couldn’t just stay stuck in place, could I?

Well?

"Hey!"

And my name, tacked on. Along with it—a warm, cheerful gaze. A direct broadcast from eyes to eyes. That look, just being near her sometimes, made me feel like a gloomy, sullen bastard. A beginner, a tiny little bastard.

And then—nothing at all. Half the stage collapsed, anxiety rushed into the void, and the cement-like confidence that had fallen from above shattered against the hastily erected scaffolding. In the resulting emptiness, only plans danced, because none of them had accounted for the possibility that nothing would change at all.

So, everything remained the same. I was in a rare state of bewilderment. Plans danced inside me, flaring up only to burn away as useless. And when the inevitable scent seeped into the void, the burning grew even fiercer. I sat nearby, wondering if my words had made her think about anything at all. If not, that’s rather sad. And pitiful, too. Profound reflections that turn out meaningless look pathetic and absurd—like using a submarine to fish for coins lying at the bottom of a fountain.

What kind of day is Monday, anyway? So often, Mondays bring surprises, absurdities, troubles, and plenty of other unpleasant things.
Unpleasantness. Monday. 

Today was empty. In the evening, following my newly established tradition, I bought a bottle of cola. Tasty. Fell asleep peacefully, slept without any frills. The more you sleep, the more you dream.

Tuesday turned out just as empty. I still go to school. It’s interesting there, after all. I still like it, no matter what. I don’t even know if I should consider this love—I have nothing to compare it to. Except now, the inner voice no longer drills into me, demanding I do something. We just exchange words. And then what? Someone will inevitably say, "Fight for it, make it happen!" But anything taken by force never brings happiness. A few minutes of joy, maybe—nothing more. Deception and trickery? Uh… where exactly am I supposed to set up this grand scheme, and for what purpose?

I didn’t feel good or bad—I just felt nothing. Of course, it wasn’t some existential crisis or apathy. Just a suspended state of compromise-induced indifference. Wrap it up—I’ll take it.

Wednesday. Not an empty day. A full week and a half until exams. Though, right now, they don’t worry me too much. It is my fifth year taking them, after all. I can’t focus. I think about her. I try to do it without lingering illusions. My inner voice seems to glare at me reproachfully. Dad’s already given me that look, though for different reasons. Even the cat sprawled on the rug stares at me with lazy indignation. I lie on the couch, trying not to move unnecessarily. My kidneys hurt. Not too bad, but noticeably.

They’ve ached on and off before, one at a time—but today, they seized up hard, both of them. A final warning. Fine. Chugging liters of cola is overkill. I’ll set limits. No more drinking it. If the pain doesn’t fade or comes back later—I’ll run to the doctor. Deal?

"Deal."

Good. I love my body. The pain didn’t vanish with a wave of my hand, but by evening, it was gone.

Thursday. There are moments worth living for. And how often they arise from actions taken without thinking. Today, during one of our exam prep review lessons, I didn’t even try to listen. A long-forgotten, ringing desire echoed in my head—to hug her, hold her close for just a few seconds, just to make it real, no matter what came after.

No. Of course, I won’t do anything. And despite the recent thaw, my inner voice will have something unflattering to say about it.

Friday. Not bad at all. Right now, things are even good. No more cola—one less daily expense, and no more indignant protests from my kidneys or other organs. But the main thing? I have an Idea. Lost in thought, I remembered last week’s dream—the text on the old man’s pages. Yes, now I have an Idea. For almost a year now, I’ve been haunted by the urge to write something. Now I know what. Not a diary of the past, but a story inspired by it. An Idea, a Purpose, a Meaning. Create!

Saturday. Now I remember, but not aimlessly. I remember, for example, what I said a week ago.

"You didn’t 'say' it, you 'just said' it."

I jumped as if my chair had caught fire.

"Just…"

"Exactly—just. But really, not 'just' at all."

"Attempted irony?"

"What? You think that’s irony?"

"No. Irony is when someone wishes you a happy birthday, hopes you’re in great spirits, and then a few days later, they’re found with a hole in their head and a gun in their hand. That’s irony. Iron-clad irony. Iron Irony, got it? Ha-ha."

"You have… interesting perspectives on things."

Sunday. I dreamed again—the first meaningful, memorable dream in a week.

I walk down the street, and the rain walks with me. I need to find shelter—home is too far. The first building in my path is an old laundromat. Inside—empty, just the hum of washing machines. I turn around—and there she is. I don’t know how she got here or why, though it doesn’t really matter.

We talk to each other while the rain talks to the asphalt. And the rain feels so sad when the asphalt is buried under mute snow, or when the rain simply stops. And above the earth settles a sorrowful silence.

When it does, we fall quiet too. Time to say goodbye. Or try to turn everything upside down?

Her hand slides down and brushes against my leg.

"Just fixing your pocket," she explains with a smile. "Just..."

She says goodbye and leaves. The door closes, the bell jingles, and sunlight strikes the glass, blindingly bright. I reach into my pocket. It’s not empty.

A scrap of paper—with a phone number.

She was wearing a red dress. Some impressions stay with you, whether you want them to or not.

I wake up smiling. Today, the sun woke me. I don’t regret that it was just a dream. What matters is that it was a good dream. I’ll try not to regret anything anymore. Even if it’s hard.

The next week wasn’t empty. I mapped out the plot, the structure, the thread to string everything on. Scattered scenes, phrases, words swarmed where, not long ago, there was only hollow gloom. I’m so glad I have a purpose now. I didn’t start writing right away. No—I spent almost the whole week nurturing this budding project, feeding it thoughts and ideas, giving it pieces of myself, helping it grow strong enough that one day I could type "Prologue" on a blank page.

I barely studied for the exams on my own. Our school had prepped us well enough. Yes, I was calm. Of course, anxiety crept in right before the "big moment." But looking back now, I'd say: "That wasn't anxiety. Just a slight tremble."

I'll flip through my notebook and go to sleep. But first, let me write a few more lines. I remember February vividly. February, the fourth month of my spring.

The exams were passed with flying colors. Four A's – a pleasant surprise, approval guaranteed.

"You did great," mom remarks during dinner.

"You know, I didn't try that hard. When you take studying a bit less seriously, it becomes much easier. Honestly, exams were probably the last thing on my mind."

"And what was occupying your thoughts then?"

"Not 'what.' 'Who.'"

Yes, that's how it was. I convinced myself that memories needed to be kept fresh, much like an actor immersing themselves in a role.

I genuinely felt lighter. I stopped tormenting and berating myself. As a character from that brilliant but obscure novel says, "Remembering is like piecing together a shattered mirror." And that's exactly what I'd been doing. The shards cut my hands, the reflection fragmented, and perhaps I was changing too, just like the protagonist of that story.

The last evening of May. Today spring ends. I thought that perhaps today this story should end too. No, it won't end until it's written to its conclusion.

A book is like a child. Countless ideas swarm in your mind, but only one strikes true, touching special recesses of your brain that immediately close themselves off to all others. And you begin to think. You ponder the foundation, mull over details. The idea consumes your entire mind. At first it's just a formless mass feeding on inspiration. Gradually it grows, becomes more defined - individual parts, chapters, episodes emerge. The work accumulates details, gains substance. You think about it and care for it, dream of seeing it mature. Finally, it ripens completely.

One day you'll begin writing. You might consider this a sort of childbirth. Though it may bring you only internal discomfort. The more inspiration you have and the more comfortable your environment, the faster you'll finish. But you won't abandon it when you put the final period.

There's a special bond between author and work. You'll protect it, defend it from all criticism. You'll nurture it, expand and develop it. But there's also a difference. The work can never care for itself, and your task is to ensure it lacks for nothing. This investment - small or large vessel of your soul - won't support you in old age. But it may support another person and outlive them all. Everything is in your hands.

"So you're going to extract this from your head and put it on paper?"

"Of course."

"I'm just curious: what will the world lose in your person?"

"Depends on who I become in it. Right now - definitely not much. Given life prospects in the Republic - apparently nothing at all."

"What will you do when you finish?"

"Keep writing. Idea and inspiration - how much does one really need?

 Though it's not that simple. First I need to finish this story. Then - fix mistakes, edit."

"Edit? Striving for better? Right. Striving for better is wonderful. Striving for perfect is deadly."

Another episode completed. I put a period and the letter "E" on the next line to avoid creating an impression of finality. It's stuffy here. I'll step out onto the balcony.

"Ideals... How dangerous they are in their unattainability. I've often seen your ideal in your mind. Your ideal at the center of a spiral you've built. And such ideals, like any others, don't exist in reality. Renounce them. Renounce the old world full of ideals. If you don't destroy your ideals, sooner or later someone else will do it for you. Either others will shatter them, or the ideals will destroy themselves, perhaps without even realizing it."

"So just like that? Abandon everything I've ever believed in? 'Live without dreams if you can't make them real' - is that what you're suggesting?"

"You're misunderstanding me again. Live, imagine, dream, fantasize, strive! There's so much beauty around! Just please—don't build ideals out of foam painted to look like concrete."

"Another step toward a simpler view of life. Maybe it isn't even that valuable? I've never really understood the stigma around suicide. Murder—an act of violence—is evil, but one's own life is theirs to dispose of."

"Then dispose of it. I give you permission."

I looked down at the roof of the ground-floor store below. Hills of cigarette butts, dirty puddles, trash scuttling in the wind. I imagined jumping—hair whipping in the breeze I’ve always loved—only to wish with my entire soul, one second before impact, to take it all back. Because I want to stay.

"Life... is an interesting thing, no matter how we twist it. I choose to dispose of nothing. I choose to remain."

"Now I ask you: Are you ready to let go of your ideals?"

I thought harder than I had in four months. I could never be just a friend to her. But if I can’t destroy one ideal, at least I can stop new ones from forming—ones that might prove fatal...

The wind swayed the trees; a storm was coming. Too dark to see the clouds, but the moon was hidden behind them. Right now, I could almost believe it was the giant green moon of that other world. Probably not perfect either. If only because it exists solely in my blinding dreams.

A black-and-green patrol passed by. The Republic. Empires crumble, social orders shift, morals change—but not people. For thousands of years, we’ve stayed the same at our core, only the shell changes.

The Republic. A black-and-green flag for a gray country.

I have a purpose. A goal. An idea. I can allow myself dreams and fantasies.

And I have three months of summer left.

Midnight struck. The electric alarm let out a beep. My spring had ended. I hope it’s not too late yet…

"Yes. I’m ready."

"Welcome, then. Welcome forward."