I've gone a couple of nights without sleeping, a couple afternoons without leaving my room, and five days feeling a knot in my stomach and an emptiness in my chest. It seems that each part of the day has its special difficulty, and now these difficulties are becoming repetitive, almost unbearable.

Two weeks ago, when I started reading a certain book my father lent me, I never imagined that the protagonist with a broken heart and a mind about to explode with emotional pain could become me. After all, fiction books are nothing but stories that every person would want to live, and each book has a certain level of fantasy that makes you believe that, although they are written to reflect human nature, they are events that will never happen to you. Isn't that the ultimate goal? To be able to live impossible things?

I could say it was a bland book. Lately, I haven't enjoyed literature very much; in fact, it seems that lately, I don't enjoy anything. If my mother saw me, she would probably be very disappointed in me, even I am disappointed in myself. But what's the point of that? My father watches the news every morning, and it seems like every day the world is going to hell; but then, during history class, I always end up remembering that the world has always been a mess.

Therefore, I could try to convince myself that there are more important things to worry about, more important things to think about: the wars in the East, the post-pandemic world, global hunger, poverty rates; I could worry more about joining a group that cleans beaches and oceans, or try to raise funds for non-profit organizations without government support. God, there are so many problems in the world that mine seem insignificant in comparison; however, I can't worry about those things, I can't think about those things, because lately, I can only think about him.

Him.

Who is he? I've asked myself repeatedly during my many sleepless nights, because now I feel like I don't know him. The mere thought of him makes me nauseous, but at the same time, I feel an immense desire to see him. I'm starting to feel suffocated by the scent of cologne infused in the hoodie I'm wearing, his hoodie, his cologne; the only proof that I saw him again five days ago behind my father's back.

Of course, he asked me about the masculine scent and the oversized hoodie. I quickly escaped an uncomfortable conversation and an inevitable punishment by telling him it belongs to my best friend. I lied so naturally that I surprised myself, it seems that now I'm used to lying.

Now, all the people around me, staring intently, are starting to intimidate me and I soon become aware that it's not just the scent of the sweatshirt suffocating me: I've started to break out in a cold sweat in response to the nerves that are germinating inside me. Their gazes analyze every move I make, every expression that crosses my face, every little detail contained in the words I say.

"Let's start with something simple," proposes the person sitting in front of me. "When did the incident happen?"

The room fills with silence, I can almost hear the sound of my own heartbeat. Everyone is attentive to my response, but for a moment the words get stuck in my throat. This is not the time to regret past actions, it's useless to analyze the situation in depth, it's also useless to try to find a perfect answer in my head. There is no perfect answer, only the truth exists.

It seems that if I speak too much, I could come out harmed, but speaking too little could also affect me; however, it's the latter that I choose, they are the only words that come out of my mouth.

I clear my throat before speaking. Then, I limit myself to answering the question concisely:

"It happened in winter."