Preston
Ellie: Best friend reporting for daily check-in. How's it all going with Vadim?
I shake my head at the pretty much exactly the same message he's been sending every morning I've been staying with Vadim.
Me: Great. I'm still alive.
Ellie:
Me:
Ellie:
Me:
I drop my phone next to my nest on the sofa and go stand by the massive windows. It's a little hazy today, a light-brown layer clouding the view. I blink hard a few times to make sure that's correct and not a symptom of my worsening vision.
Nope, I'm right. It's a haze.
Vadim left for his meeting an hour ago, and I've spent most of the time since he left staring at my diary, trying to work things out.
I'm already behind on my placement hours due to taking time off this week to recover from the attack.
Now, with Dad being told he only has a few months to live, I have to decide how much time I want to spend with him versus pursuing a qualification for a job I most likely won't be able to do once I lose my vision completely.
On its own, it's not a difficult choice. Spending time with Dad wins, hands down. It's just… this isn't just a choice about what to do next, it's opening a whole freaking Pandora's Box about the rest of my future.
I realize what I've been doing is futile, clinging onto a life that is slowly slipping away. But it hasn't slipped away entirely yet. I can still see. I can still go about my normal daily life. I can still communicate via text even if I am becoming increasingly reliant on memes and GIFs.
Even my headaches have lessened a little since the attack, which has been a very welcome development.
A really big part of me doesn't want to start actually dealing with things because once I do, there's no coming back from it. My life will change forever, and I'm scared. Actually, I'm beyond scared.
I'm petrified.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I go into the kitchen and make a start on tonight's dinner.
It's my last night staying here so I was going to make my specialty, seafood risotto, as a way of thanking Vadim for letting me stay without actually saying the words since he doesn't seem to like it when I do that.
But if he can't taste it, is it still worth making? I shake my head and chastise myself. That's totally the wrong way to approach it. Vadim didn't like it when I held myself back from saying his sandwich tasted good, so I'm not going to hold back on the cooking front either.
Tonight, I'm making him a risotto, and I am pulling out all the stops.