Three.

It has been three years.

How can that be when I can still see that long hallway, hear the buzz of the door that led me to your room, feel my own breath, hot inside the face mask they made me wear? It can’t be three years. It can’t be three years since I waited in that room. It can’t possibly be three years since I last saw you when I can still remember your smell, your voice, as though we were together moments ago. But it was. It was three years ago I stood crying in the shower, wondering what to wear on the day you were going to die. Three years ago when a stranger sat me down in a cramped office and told me he did everything he could.

They cried. I didn’t.
They hugged. I didn’t.
They left together and I left alone. Drove quietly back to my home to pack for a week in yours. Black dress, black tights, black shoes.

This gets easier, right?

Kocham cię. Zawsze.

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