Left side, Right side.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale... Andre Kriegman is the only person on this entire damn planet who doesn't make me want to shoot myself with his presence. On the contrary, when he is near, I feel my heart begin to shrink to the size of an atom. You know, that feeling... Butterflies in your stomach? So strange, so light, and at the same time like an incredibly heavy burden. Sometimes I get the feeling that when I’m next to him, listening to his voice, delving into his words and looking into his eyes (oh, his eyes!), it’s like I’m being doused with boiling water from a kettle from head to toe. Oh God, I can’t... Even thinking about him drives me crazy, as if I’m looking somewhere far beyond the horizon, and there he is – he, my dream, my fear, my deepest desire. My destruction, my savior, my passion, my world. I keep up with him. I try to follow his every step, exactly like him. I want to merge with him into one whole, so that I know for sure that we will be together, forever, happy, in eternal peace and quiet under the same soil. He looks at me as he continues to talk about Zero Day. When I see his eyes light up as he talks about his plan, I feel like I've been set on fire by a sparkler. It’s already hot outside, I’m walking in just a T-shirt, but with every second I want more and more to just die on the spot. I cannot carry such a burden as falling in love. I can’t, I can’t hold this fragile world in my hands, I can’t watch how with every move the fragile glass begins to crack and hurt my palms, fingers, wrists. I can't, I can't, I'm tired. I want to be with him, please, even with God’s help, let me open my ribs to him, there to look at my heart, at my insides, at my bones. I look at my watch. Three o'clock in the afternoon, twenty-two minutes, three seconds. "Andre..." Oh God, why did I still decide? No, I shouldn't have done that. Turn around one hundred and eighty, back, run back, get out of sight. "Can I tell you something?" Be quiet. Be quiet. Shut up, idiot, it's all bullshit. This is impossible. He will not accept you, he will reject you, he will trample on your dreams, he will spit on your hopes, he will tear your secret desires to shreds, he will parasitize on your thoughts, he will rip your heart out of you, he will break every bone. No... I’m scared. "I think I like you." …Silence. Silence, the only sound that can oppress, intimidate, inspire life and calm. His silence is my fear and my anxious anticipation. Only the wind, which easily makes the leaves of the trees rustle above our heads, and the grass on the other side of the almost hot asphalt under the bright sun rustle in time with the trees. It seemed to me that just a minute ago I heard some birds singing, but now they have died down. Or maybe they never existed? Maybe we are not there either? My knees are shaking, Andre is still looking at me. I cannot read this emotion in his eyes, I cannot tell whether it is fear, hatred, reciprocity or a desperate desire to break my skull. I wonder if I'm too distrustful? Maybe this is not love when you are afraid of rejection, afraid of the future, spinning the most impossible scenarios in your head? The one who stole sinned once. The one from whom it was stolen committed seven sins. He stole my heart. Andre’s voice sounds the same, but now it seems to me that he is not sure of his words, which for me, the one who spends almost all the time next to him, and probably hears him more than anyone in the world, pleasant, and as if constantly sarcastic voice, is something new. "Are you sure?" No, of course not. I'm not sure, I'm almost never sure, and now I'm even less sure. Andre is the only one who tried to instruct me, who is there when I am driven into a dead end, when I am drowning in the sweet agony of despair to kill myself before the first of May. "Yes, I am sure." Silence again. How many minutes have passed? How many years? Why am I standing here as if I were standing on the tracks, knowing that from minute to minute a train will crash into me with all its force and smear my intestines, leaving my rotten body a pathetic, ugly, useless corpse? Apparently, this is how Meg Ryan felt when she confessed her love to Tom Hanks? It's all the damn influence of the media. It's funny, if Andre found out that I even watch such films, I would get another caustic joke from him. This thought makes me want to laugh. Yes, right there, on the conventional rails. "And it's not a joke?" No, Andre, it's not a joke. You have no idea how much effort and nerves it costs me, standing here in front of you as if I were naked. This is not just fear, this is a panic attack leading to psychosis, and I somehow restrain my desire to take a pen from my school backpack and stick it into my carotid artery. However, this is nonsense. "No... Is this mutual?" Let me get to the heart of the matter. The essence... The essence is the most essential and fundamental to something. Is it important at all? Am I too straightforward? I can't, please answer quickly. Let this fucking train rush into me and grind my skin into the rails. Andre doesn't look away. This is because he is not a weakling. I don't look away either. This is because I subconsciously want to drown in every second when he looks into my eyes and stay there forever. "Yes, it's mutual." For the first time in my life, it takes me so long to process two simple short words that every preschooler can understand. Have I really degenerated so much during this painfully long period of time while I waited for an answer? Did my brain really boil at such a hot temperature (albeit average for our state)? Is it really the last connection of my own little world, my bubble, with the human, real world, was lost so much and so long ago? Happiness envelops my weak body from head to toe, and I feel hot again. I took a step forward across the rails. This is a second, no, eternal happiness! I'm at a loss for words and all I can do is just smile. This smile is all I can do for now. I can't even move from my spot. I am lost, stupid, naive, sinful. And in love. In love so much that I hope that we, Andre and I, will die together. I look at my watch again. Three o'clock in the afternoon, twenty-two minutes, forty-five seconds.