As long as I remember you

He spoke, and there were no sweet, comforting illusions in his words. There was the harsh, unshakable truth of a love that does not deny pain and horror, but accepts them and stands beside you to share the burden.

She didn’t answer. She just turned her palm over and squeezed his fingers. Weakly, barely perceptibly, almost without pressure. But it was a movement. It was not a capitulation, but the beginning of a new, terrifying, uncharted, and only possible path.

She looked out the window. Twilight had fully gathered over London, thousands of lights were coming on, turning the city into a scattering of jewels. Somewhere out there, far away, remained their lavender field in Kent, their old apple tree, their laughter, imprinted in memory. And she made a quiet but firm vow to herself — as long as her eyes saw light, even if distorted, and her heart felt this rending pain, she would cling to it. To every ray. To every, even the most bitter, second.

Art is not about leaving a mark. It’s about becoming a bridge for someone else’s sorrow, a thought, not her own but so precise, flashed through her mind.

Now she had to become a bridge for herself. To throw it across the black, bottomless abyss that Dr. Reed’s office had just opened within her. And the first, most terrible step had been taken.

Chapter 5 The Inner Garden

The thought of saying it all out loud again felt physically unbearable to Amelia. Every newly spoken word made the shadow of the diagnosis — still vague, presumptive, but no less dreadful — more dense, more tangible. It was letting the monster from under the bed into the lit room, giving it a name and the right to exist. Luca took upon himself all the fuss of finding doctors, organizing consultations in Oxford and Zurich, filling the agonizing wait with a feverish, almost desperate activity that gave him the illusion of control, of some kind of forward movement. Amelia, meanwhile, withdrew into herself, spending long hours in the studio, not touching the paints, but just sitting in the old leather armchair by the window and looking at the unfinished, promising sketch of the lavender field. It now seemed to her a cruel mockery, a bright, poisonously vivid memory of a world of sensations that was slowly but inexorably closing to her, like the last ray of sun disappearing beyond the horizon.

But staying in complete isolation was impossible. Rachel called every day, first with cheerful, detailed inquiries about the weekend («So, how was your escape to Kent? I expect a full report with pictures! Did you find that perfect shade of purple?»), then her voice became light, with feigned nonchalance («Hi, it’s me. Where have you disappeared to? Luca is mumbling something about fatigue and deadlines. Check in, or I’ll start to worry!»), then her messages took on notes of growing, unconcealed anxiety. The last message, received yesterday evening, was short and direct: «Amelia. Something is wrong with you. I can feel it. I’m coming over tomorrow morning. Be home.»

And Amelia understood she had to speak. Not over the phone, not in a text. Face to face. It was a duty of friendship, a final act of strength and trust before the inevitable plunge into the maelstrom of hospitals and examinations.

She invited Rachel over, purposely choosing a time when Luca wouldn’t be home. She needed to do this alone. Like the last line of defense she had to hold herself.

Rachel rushed over, as always, swiftly and noisily. Her sports car purred to a halt by the curb, and a moment later she burst into the hallway like a hurricane, filling the space with energy, noise, and the thick, complex scent of her perfume with notes of leather, bergamot, and something woody.

«Well, finally!» she exclaimed, tossing an expensive coat of an indeterminate grey-green, marshy hue onto the coat rack. «I was starting to think you and Luca had secretly run off to Bali, forgetting all your loyal subjects! What’s happened, my dear? You look…» her quick, sharp, gallery-honed gaze instantly scanned and assessed Amelia’s pallor, the slight tremor in her hands, the dark, bruise-like shadows under her eyes, "...not just tired. You look drained. Is this new project sucking you dry? Or has Lucaš driven you to it with his eternal perfectionism? Talk. I’m all ears.»

She walked into the kitchen, habitually, as if at home, took the jar of her favorite Earl Grey tea — the one with cornflower petals — from the shelf and began clattering cups, filling the kettle.

«If it’s that pompous idiot from the gallery in Whitechapel again offering you to exhibit in a basement with graffiti artists, I’ll go and have a word with him myself. I have a couple of concise but very compelling arguments for him.»

Amelia stood by the large oak table, hugging her elbows as if she were freezing, though the kitchen was warm. She watched Rachel move — such confident, precise movements — and tried to find the words. Any words. They scattered like frightened cockroaches, making way only for a lump in her throat.

«Rach…» her voice broke; she cleared her throat. «It’s not about work.»

«What, then?» Rachel turned around, and her lively, mocking smile slowly faded, giving way to wariness and a slight frown. She saw the real expression on her friend’s face — not fatigue, but fear. «Is everything okay with Luca? I mean… did something happen between you? No, it can’t be. You two… you’re the perfect couple. You complement each other like…» she hesitated, searching for a comparison, "...like a canvas and paint.»

«Luca is fine,» Amelia replied quickly, almost sharply. «Absolutely. It’s me, Rachel. Something is… wrong with me. Has been since the beginning of summer.»

She forced herself to speak. Slowly, with agonizing pauses, stumbling and finding the thread again. She told her about the first, barely noticeable lapses — the numbness in her fingertips, as if she’d slept on her hand. About starting to drop brushes, tubes, cups. About the strange vibration that suddenly appeared in bright colors on her palette, especially in cobalt blue, which would start pulsating like a living, blinding, red-hot ember. She told her about the visit to the GP, the referral for the MRI, the terror of the confined space and the deafening thunder that still echoed in her ears. And finally, about the cold, sterile office of Dr. Reed, about his dispassionate, measuring voice listing terrible, impossible, alien words: «neurodegenerative,» «progressive,» «rare disease,» «symptomatic treatment,» «unknown etiology.»

She didn’t cry. She just spoke in an even, monotonous voice, looking somewhere towards the window, where a fine autumn rain was falling slowly, lazily, turning the street into a shiny, wet canvas.

When she finished, a deathly silence hung in the kitchen. The only sounds were the ticking of the old wall clock with a pendulum left by the previous owners, and the hiss of a car passing outside, its tires swishing on the wet asphalt.

Rachel stood motionless, the porcelain teapot frozen in her hand. Her face, usually so lively and expressive, instantly reflecting every emotion, became a mask of utter disbelief and mounting shock.

«This is… this is some monstrous, absurd mistake,» she finally breathed out. Her voice, usually so resonant and confident, trembled, grew quieter. «They know nothing. These doctors… they see hundreds of patients a day, they hand out diagnoses left and right, you’re just another case to them. You’re stressed! Chronically overworked! You work too much, you take on too much! You’re a perfectionist, for God’s sake! You could have that same neuropathy from a pinched nerve that… what’s his name… Reed talked about! Yes, he said it himself — there are manageable conditions!»

«I can’t smell your tea, Rachel,» Amelia interrupted her, quietly but very clearly. «I know it’s here. I see the steam rising from the spout. I see the color — dark, amber. But I can’t smell it. Not a bit. And your perfume… your favorite perfume… I can barely smell it either. Only a faint, flat, papery echo.»

That simple, terrible, irrefutable statement hit its mark like a knife thrust. Rachel slowly, as if in slow motion, put the teapot down on the table. Her slender, always so confident hands were trembling slightly. She took two steps towards Amelia, hugged her with such strength, such desperate tenderness, that it took Amelia’s breath away.

«No,» she whispered into her hair, and her voice broke. «No, no, no. This can’t be. This mustn’t be. You… you’re made of sensations! You live by them! You see right through the world, you feel it with every pore! It’s your essence! Your core! Without it, you’re not… without it…»

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