Broken Hearts and Blue Veins🩵 (Part 3/5)

CHAPTER FIVE: 

As my world crumbled in front of me, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Just moments ago, we were kissing hand in hand, laughing, sharing dreams of the future. But today, as I saw the unfathomable, my heart broke. The love of my life, Achilles, clenched his chest in misery while his face twisted from pain. Panic rushed through my veins as fear engulfed every fibre of my body. The world around me grew smaller and seemed to move more slowly. He—the man I cherished, the one whose heart I was holding in my hands—was all that mattered. Thoughts raced through my mind, a jumble of memories and hopes intertwined with the cruel reality of the situation. Would we ever hold hands again, share kisses under the moonlight, or laugh until our sides hurt? Would he ever read his poetries to me? The uncertainty gnawed at my soul, threatening to drown me in despair. With every update from the doctors, my heart clenched in anticipation. Each word became a lifeline, a glimmer of hope that sustained me through the dark. The surgery loomed over us, a critical battle fought by skilled hands, while my heart bled with worry. Time ticked on, each tick a reminder of the fragility of life. I clung to the memories we had created, the love we had nurtured, and the future we had never imagined. I whispered silent prayers, begging for his strength and for the universe to grant him a second chance at life. 

I felt so much pain, suffering, and yet it was still foreign to me. Taking on the pain of all these people is seen as "noble" or "heroic" but, I have been selfish...the only pain I ever wanted to feel or rather figure out was my own. I thought maybe, just maybe, I'd find myself more if I felt my pain. Now that I've achieved my task of feeling my own pain, I am feeling that pain is never felt by me before. What I felt about others was just fraud and everyone has fallen for it.I did realise everyone's pain but never felt mine. And now when I knew what self-pain felt like, I feel like I never felt other people’s pain at the first place. It was just their words transferring from their mind to my mind. It was solely their physical feature that was adapted by my body. I have never felt pain before. As I stood there looking back, remembering, every person's pain; I realised, nobody has ever felt mine, not even me, not once. 

25th June, 2022 

Dear Diary, 

Achilles is under going a surgery, today. He was going through a surgery when I first met him. I was 15 and had visited the hospital to see one of my relatives with my parents. They were sitting in the general ward with the relative but I excused them by saying that I want to use the restroom. I left the room and started looking around. When I was passing through the store room, I heard something. The voice was crackling. So I went inside the store room. There, I saw a guy sitting in one corner , reading a book, just like today. Except for the bandage on the neck. That day, he had a bandage on his whole hand. Beautiful brown hair, glass cut face, thin lips, emerald eyes. 

When he saw me, he asked, “Are you lost here? I can help you if you want. I have been living here for my whole life.” 

“Whole life? Why?” 

“I don’ t know. I just live here.” 

I was kind of shocked at his revelation. Who lives in hospital? But if he said, he might be living. 

What is this book you are reading? I have never seen such an abstract cover without any title.” 

It …Actu …Actually this is my book. I write poetries here and read them before every surgery . W hat if I die during a surgery and never get a chance to read them again? You never know.” 

I was astonished again . How can someone can “ If I die” so easily. 

What has happened to you?” 

“I have an ugly heart. M y heart is dismantled and blocked as they say here. It does not work the way it should be. So it can stop at any moment. And when it stops, I will die.” 

“What is your surgery today of then? To put the heart together?” 

Dumb girl, you can’t do that. You cannot put up the dismantled, broken hearts together.” 

Then what difference will this surgery make to your heart, if not put it up together?” 

They say, it will increase my life span.” 

“Isn’ t that a nice thing?” 

“No, I do not want to live long with a broken heart.” 

“Why ?” 

I do not know how to explain it in words.” 

“You said you write poetries? Describe it in that way then Mr. Poet.” 

“Give me 5 minutes then. I will try” 

As the soft sunlight gently bathed the cozy room, I found myself captivated by his presence. He sat there, hunched over his knees, a pen clutched delicately between his fingers. With each stroke, he poured his emotions onto the paper, as if the words themselves danced to his command. I watched in awe as his eyes sparkled with a mixture of concentration and passion, lost in the world he was creating. His brows furrowed slightly, his lips moving in silent whispers, as if he were whispering sweet nothings to the ink that flowed effortlessly from his pen. As he crafted each line, his face illuminated with a subtle smile. It was a smile that spoke volumes, revealing the vulnerability and tenderness he dared to bare through his words. In that moment, I saw beyond the poet, beyond the mere act of writing, and into the essence of his being. His presence enveloped the room, like an enchanting melody that played softly in the background. Every word he penned drew me closer, deeper into his world. And as I sat there, silent witness to his creative process, I realised that I was falling in love. 

“There it is, the poetry is ready, ahh. I forgot to ask you, what’ s your name? My name is Achilles.” 

“I am Sapphira.” 

“So, from today, we are filos.” 

What does filos mean?” 

“Filos means Friends. In Greek language. I learnt this word from a Greek mythology book.” 

"Wow, Now read the poetry to me.” 

He nodded and read, 

“I couldn't sleep at night thinking, 

In my room, with my clock tinkling. 

The clock ticks as the fan does its merry go round, 

I wonder, from where does my insomnia bound? 

Alone, but could here murmurs too loud, 

Just me or anyone else here? just want a sleep so sound. 

Regrets an d wishes upon my sleeve, 

I'm trying my best, is what I want my heart to believe. 

I'm tired, I yawn, but still can't sleep, 

Witted or hurt, with countless memories, think deep. 

I try to write about them at night, 

With a quill and a paper, the lamp on my right. 

The ink smudges, as I stare, 

Into my writing, realising my life is too bare . 

Bundles of dreams, miseries to brave, 

Not wander into unknown existence, want to crave, 

But my body betrays to mere living, with sleepless ties, 

Wilted in time, an irony in all my lies.” 

As the poetry unfolded before me, I knew that our hearts were entwined, two souls bound by a shared appreciation for the beauty of words and the depths of emotion. I could not completely understand him. But eventually, I will. 

Good night! 

CHAPTER SIX: 

And finally, as the surgery came to an end, a fragile thread of hope emerged. The surgeon emerged, exhaustion etched on their face, and uttered the words that brought tears of relief streaming down my face. He had made it through—a fighter, a survivor. As I stood by his side in the hospital room, watching him slowly regain consciousness, I marvelled at the resilience of the human spirit. He opened his eyes, tried to smile, and murmured, “Hey, Anam Cara.” 

With sobbing eyes and wide smile, I asked, “Now what’s Anam Cara, Mr. Poet?” 

“Anam Cara is a person with whom you can share your inner feelings and deepest fears; someone who is your 'soul friend'. And to me, you are my Anam Cara.” 

“You have made it a ritual to pamper me with a nickname in new languages after every surgery of yours.” 

I couldn’t hold my tears back seeing those veiny hands loaded with needles and bandages. I pressed my hands softly on his blue veins to see if that hurts too. 

“You know what those blue veins means?” 

I nodded in no. 

“I will tell you.” 

He put my hand on his chest and continued speaking, “The blood flowing through these veins contains haemoglobin, a protein that has four iron atoms incorporated into its structure. Iron is only naturally produced in one place; it can only be forged in the core of dying stars. Every time you look at your veins, remember that you are built from, and kept alive by, pieces of stardust.” 

He slowly pecked my hand before speaking further. “Stardust is considered a celestial dance of ethereal wonders. It paints the canvas of the cosmos with its delicate brushstrokes of luminescence. It is the shimmering essence that whispers secrets across the vast expanse of the universe, captivating the imagination of those who dare to gaze upon its radiant tapestry. Borne from the hearts of dying stars, stardust is the essence of creation itself—a cosmic alchemy that transforms fiery infernos into exquisite particles of cosmic magic. When touched by the gentle caress of starlight, stardust sparkles with a brilliance that defies imagination. It ignites the sky with a celestial choreography of shimmering hues—crimson, gold, and sapphire—forming celestial ribbons that trace the paths of celestial bodies in their celestial dance. But stardust is more than mere beauty; it is a reminder of our own cosmic connection. For within us, too, lies remnants of the same celestial brilliance. We are stardust made manifest—particles of the universe, intricately entwined with the very fabric of existence. When we gaze upon the stardust above, we glimpse our own celestial origins, and the infinite possibilities that reside within us. Isn’t that beautiful? Ain’t these veins beautiful? Why get scared from them, Anam Cara?” 

I wiped away my tears as I got my Achilles back. 

Achilles got discharged 2 days after this heart attack incident. But doctors said he was weaker than before. His CAD (coronary artery disease) has worsened. And that he won’t survive for long now. He won’t survive. 

26th June, 2022 

Dear Diary, 

Sometimes, I fear Achilles . After his first surgery, when I went to see him, he was sad. Sad that he will have to live again with this broken heart. How do I tell him that I am in love with his broken heart? Months passed and I used to meet him every alternate day. And not in those 11 months once I saw him without bandages. W hen I used to ask him about them, he used to tell me it was his routine checkup things. And finally, one day, I confessed my love to him. To my utter surprise, the feeling was mutual. That was the happiest day of my life. That night, we made love, unconditionally. But exactly one month after that, it was the worst. 

When I visited the hospital to meet him, I got to know that he had a heart attack, for the first time. My heart twitched at the thought of it. I went to see him and found that he had still not gained his consciousness. I held his hand and waited. Hours after that, when I was half asleep, I heard a voice. His voice. “Mi amor? Wake up, Mi Amor.” 

I was so happy to hear him but his smile was lost this time. 

“What does Mi Amor mean, Mr. Poet?” 

“It means My Love, in Spanish.” 

His voice was fissuring. I could see the pain on his face. In this world, where no one cared about others, I could feel and hear everyone’s pain. But. Why was I unable to hear his? Maybe because he, himself was able to dictate his pain to me? 

“Are you sad, Achilles?” 

“I don’ t know. I am feeling empty.” 

“Why?” 

“You want to hear the truth?” 

“Of course. Tell me.” 

“For 15 years, I have been living in this hospital. I have gone through numerous surgeries in those years. Never once, I had the wish to live through any. But last night, when I collapsed, the first and only thought in my mind was YOU.” 

He sat on the bed and held my hands while pulling me near him. After placing a smooth kiss on my lips, he continues, “I never wanted to live. Because, I had no one to live for.” 

You should have lived for yourself , Achilles. I think but don’t speak. 

“But now, I have you. You are like family to me. I love you. And you love me. Now, I want to live for you.” 

He started crying right after speaking this and we melted into each other. 

Good night!