I wake up with tears in my eyes. The entire pillow is wet — I must have been crying all night without even realizing it. The fabric under my cheeks is cold, reflecting the emptiness that has long settled inside me. My throat aches from suppressed sobs, and a lump stands in my chest — heavy, immovable, as if someone has placed a stone there. It presses from the inside, not letting me breathe.
I dream of Maxim again. His face, his eyes, his gaze — everything is so vivid, so painfully real, that when I wake up, I instinctively reach out as if he could be there, right there… like before. For a moment, it seems that if I open my eyes a little wider, he will be sitting next to me, stroking my hair, smiling in the way only he can. But my hand only hits emptiness.
I dream of him looking at me… That gaze — warm, gentle, filled to the brim with love and understanding — tears my soul apart. It pierces to the depths, to the very heart, leaving behind a poignant longing. I feel his presence as if it warms me from within, wrapping around me like a blanket on a cold winter day.
Sometimes in my dreams, he hugs me, and I can literally feel the touch of his hands — so familiar, strong, protective. I feel the beat of his heart against my cheek, hear his breath, as if he whispers to me: "I'm here." These moments are like a breath of air after a long dive — more real than reality.
And on other nights… we make love. These are dreams that make everything inside me freeze. I feel every emotion — from the trembling touch to the boundless tenderness he pours into every gesture. His fingers seem to draw something more than mere caresses on my skin — they give warmth that nothing can replace. In those dreams, I am truly happy — happy in a way I can never be in this reality, since I won't feel it in real life without him…
In the first year after our breakup, I had nightmares. In them, Maxim came to me, but he was different. His face was twisted with pain, his eyes flashed with lightning, and his voice sounded full of resentment, like a knife through my heart. He accused me, shouting that I had betrayed him, abandoned him. These words tore me apart from the inside. And I, helpless, cried, reached out to him, begged him to listen. But he stood there, as if behind glass, cold and distant, as if everything that had existed between us had vanished, dissolved, erased. I woke up screaming, with a throbbing despair in my chest that slowly ate away at me from within.
For a long time, I couldn't breathe, as if I existed in a gray fog. Every breath was a struggle. Every morning was a battle — with myself, with the emptiness, with the lack of meaning. It felt like I was walking on the edge of an abyss, and any wrong step — and I would fall. I just wanted to lie down, hide under the blanket, and disappear, disappear forever. To dissolve into darkness, so as not to feel, not to remember, not to hope.
But life was growing inside me. A tiny heart beat beneath mine, reminding me that I was not alone. That now I had someone for whom it was worth getting up, breathing, fighting. This was not only my grief — it was her future. And I had no right to take away her mother.
Everything was like this until I gave birth to our little girl. The pain didn't go away — it just stepped aside slightly, as if giving room to something new. Along with her came strength. Not loud, not sharp — quiet, stubborn. It didn't shout, didn't break walls. It was born in every breath, in every step I took toward a new life. With every movement, every day, every sleepless night, it slowly grew within me, like a warm root in frozen ground.
I knew: for her, I had to be strong. I had no right to give up. But, God, how hard it was… Until I saw her. Until I looked into her eyes. Then — for the first time in a long, too long time — I truly breathed. Deeply, with a shiver, with pain, but with life. She looked at me, and in those eyes I saw him. My Maxim. His light, his tenderness, his soul. And everything changed. She became my hope, my light, my new life. She is my Mary.
Mary grows like a little flame. Mischievous, playful, restless. She laughs so brightly that it makes you want to laugh with her. Forever in motion, as if the energy of a whole world pulses inside her. There is no fear in her — only endless curiosity and a thirst for life. She runs toward each day, arms flailing, stumbling, rising again. And I want to both cry and laugh at the same time. I try to hold her, tightly squeezing her tiny hand in mine, hoping to protect her from all the storms, from all the pain I know myself. But she, like I once was, is a hurricane — untamed, alive, genuine.
There is so much life in her, so much warmth… and in every impulse of hers, in every ringing laugh, I feel Maxim. She is his reflection. His continuation. My joy. My salvation. But even with her beside me, even in the brightest moments, the emptiness inside does not disappear. It simply becomes part of me. Maxim is my half, my soul. And even though time passes, even though I learn to live, to laugh, to be everything for Mary, his absence is still a pain that nothing can silence.
Vi sends photos, videos… I open them with my heart trembling. And every time, my heart breaks. His voice, his face, his movements — all of it is like a blow to an unhealed wound. I watch, I listen, and I cry — silently, bitterly. It feels as if it is impossible to breathe through this longing.
He is my whole world. And this world collapses. I do not know how he endures all this. He is alone. He does not have Mary like I do. He does not have the light that wakes me every morning, hugs me with her little hands, and calls me dad. I lose him, but he remains in her — in her voice, in her gaze, in her funny habits. She is my thread to him, my love that no one can ever take away from me.
I was so grateful to Vi. He did not abandon Maxim. He stayed close at the moment when everything collapsed, when the ground slipped from under my feet, when even the air felt treacherously cold. Vi held him, supported him, pulled him out of the darkness into which Max had fallen. He was the one who stayed when many had left.
He told me how he and Maxim had found each other — not at once, but step by step. How trust had grown between them, how their friendship had strengthened, how they had become a support for each other, leaning on their shared loneliness, on their shared sense of being lost. Those words are like medicine to me.
It is incredibly important. I cannot do it, cannot be there, cannot offer my shoulder. But I know Maxim has someone. Someone who becomes his point of support when everything around him shakes. And this knowledge gives me peace. He is not alone. And for me, that means more than words can express.
Grandfather also told me about Max. For a long time he had been silent. He had hidden his life from me, as if wanting to protect my heart from pain, from new cracks. He believed that it was better for me not to know, not to stir it up, not to touch it. He believed it was the right way.
I never learned what his first year had been like. A year of silence. A year of pain. A year between us, like an abyss filled with silence and the impossibility of meeting. Sometimes I tried to imagine what he had been like — Maxim in loneliness, Maxim without me. But my heart shrank, and I drove those thoughts away.
And then Grandfather finally spoke. He told me how he studied, about his victories, about the recognition he received. How people began to see in him what I had always known — strength, talent, light. I listened, and my heart filled with warm, ringing joy. I was proud of him. Truly.
He is the best in the course. He achieves everything by himself, step by step, leaning on no one. It is my consolation — proof that he survives. That he finds strength in himself to keep going, even when I am not beside him. And in this there is not only pride, but also hope — maybe he forgives after all.
Vi also said that his father helped him. That he gave him work, sheltered him in his branch, believed in him no matter what. I listened and felt something inside me release. It was relief, almost like forgiving myself. He was not left alone. It became part of his resurrection — step by step, he gathered himself again, piecing together the broken fragments of his soul, of his life. And I know Maxim can be happy again.
To believe this is frightening. Painful. As if betraying my own pain. But when I hear about his successes, when I imagine him standing with a folder in his hand, in a suit, with a light shadow of tiredness and with light in his eyes, I feel he moves forward.
Maybe one day, through years, through distances, fate will bring us together again. Who knows?