Chapter 35
Hanna
Cheerful music, boisterous conversations, and children's laughter surround us. Everyone around us seems happy, but we are not. A bittersweet melancholy lingers between us.
I should tell him, even if I can't fully grasp it myself. Since I was discharged from the hospital today, I can hardly think straight.
"No matter what it is, I'm here for you," Vico says now, even more earnestly and lovingly.
With tightly pressed lips, I turn away. I can't look into his eyes, let alone his longing face. Whatever this is between us, it's wrong. At least I've figured that out by now. I brush my bangs aside.
Suddenly, I feel his cheek against mine. His three-day beard tickles my skin, his scent enveloping me. "If you want to stay… not just until Tuesday… but for…"
His hot breath brushes against my ear, sending a whole wave of emotions flooding through my body. He doesn't need to finish the sentence; I know what he wants to say.
Swallowing hard, I take a step back. "I can't." My voice croaks.
His forehead furrows. "Because of Florian?"
He is a significant reason, that's true. Florian is good for me and being with him feels right. But he's not the only reason. "Partly," I reply honestly.
"Because of me?" Once again, he looks as if he wants to shoulder the blame for my accident. But he doesn't have to.
Because by now, I know that my Vespa crash was nobody's fault. I haven't done anything wrong except for getting on that thing and believing that life was only meant for enjoyment.
"Don't make it so hard for me, Hanna," he pleads in a tone that gives me goose bumps.
I have to tell him. Because regardless of how he reacts, one fact remains unchanged. Whatever is hanging in the air between us, sometimes seeming like a shimmering soap bubble, so close within reach, it has nothing to do with reality. Not yesterday, not today, and certainly not tomorrow.
To feel a bit stronger, I clench my fists. "I'm sick." It's unbelievable that I've spoken those words. Just three weeks ago, I wouldn't have had the courage to tell anyone that I wasn't doing well. I would have been too worried about burdening others or risking them thinking poorly of me. But now I stand here, looking Vico firmly in the eye, and say it. "I have epilepsy."
Confused, he tilts his head to the side. It takes several seconds for him to grasp the extent of my illness. That the migraines I've been dealing with my entire life are not just headaches. That the ringing in my ears and double vision are the result of misfires in my brain.
"The doctor explained it to me today, and even though I barely understand medical terms in Italian, I got the gist of it. Not every epileptic seizure is automatically a convulsive one. So far, apparently, I've only had small ones—she called them focal seizures—that affected only a part of my brain. But it's not ruled out that one day, it might be different." And a seizure—no matter what kind—can mean my death at the wrong moment. Just like this morning during our Vespa ride. And like that time when I almost drowned in the lake while swimming.
I'm sure he understands. Nevertheless, he doesn't react. His silence drives me crazy. He tries to say something, but no words come out.
I, too, don't know what else to say. I have a thousand thoughts inside me, and I can't catch one. As I look into his eyes, the only thing I know is that it's no longer about the life I dream of but about what life is even possible for me.
I have to take care of myself and figure out what triggers my seizures so I can learn to cope with them. There are things I won't be able to do anymore. Even if the doctor couldn't tell me what those are, she made it very clear that the diagnosis will change my everyday life.
Now, sweat beads form on his forehead, and his breath quickens. I recognize the shock in his expression.
The time has come.
He understands.
Now, we're both probably relieved that we can soon return to our old lives. I will be as safe as possible, and he will experience all the adventures he longs for. We'll be fine, and we can't ask for more.
"I…," he stammers, running his hands through his hair. Then he tears his gaze away from me, turning hastily and disappearing into the celebrating crowd surrounding us.
I watch him with melancholy. I should be relieved, as all the questions that emerged in the past weeks suddenly have a clear answer. I know which path is right for me, and it always has been.
Yet it breaks my heart to see him go. I can't stop wondering why fate brought us together when there could never be a happy ending for us.
My inner turmoil sends a pounding sensation through my temples—a warning sign I should take seriously. I need to regain control. Just as the doctor explained to me today, excitement is bad for me, adrenaline especially. Stress might trigger my epilepsy, and I should avoid it whenever possible.
I take deep breaths, distracting myself by observing the celebrating crowd. Alessia and Camilla try to coax a smile from their father. They offer him cake and wine, but he touches neither. They invite him to dance, but he shakes his head. Alessia reaches for his hand, but he pulls it away. Suddenly, she looks up and locks eyes with me. Her eyes are filled with sadness, and I can't be sure of its source, but I can imagine it.
She must realize now that she has to let go of her hope for a happy ending for the Olivetta family. Until today, she might have hoped that her father would recover. But with his behavior, there's no reason left to hope for a miracle.
Maybe that's it.
Or perhaps I'm projecting my own emotions onto her expression.
I don't know.
Looking at Alessia doesn't do me any good. Thinking about Vico, the Olivetta family, and their fate doesn't help either.
Enough, Hanna , I reprimand myself, as it's time to finally acknowledge the facts. Regardless of the daydreams that consumed me in the past weeks, none of them are real.
Least of all the one where I'm in Vico's arms, just looking at him and knowing where my heart belongs.