In the Clouds

Chapter 1

"You are the specks of dust I belong to," I whispered in his ear as I felt the warm water slowly flowing in my closed eyes. "Everything; everyone in the universe is just made of dust and I'm a dust that belongs only to you."

He chuckled softly and I opened my eyes. He looks so good, he always does. I've always been crazy attracted to his hair ever since I saw it for the first time. And then, over the years, I saw it change its colour, style, and length several times yet here I am, still as attracted to it just as much and I realized it's not about his hair, I just am crazy about him.

We're showering together right at this moment, holding each other, feeling the other's warmth and I'm wondering if he's warmer than the water from the shower, but it's just one of my most random, pointless thoughts I'll never talk about.

I wonder if he thinks of things like this too. I wonder what's his favourite memory of me, or in what light he sees me most beautiful, but I did not feel like asking. It's a mystery: a question that'll forever be unanswered that I want to enjoy.

"What a romantic way to give me existential crisis," he whispered back, making me laugh.

It's moments like this that only matter when they're happening. It never mattered in the past, nor will it matter in the future. In short—my favourite kind of moment.

The emotions in moments like this are those that I would never remember after it has gone. The memory, yes, but the feeling? No. Because this was a feeling made only for this moment exclusively, as if it was meant to be a secret from the rest of the whole wide world.

A part of me believes that our mind forgets these feelings because if the heart feels those again, it'd miss them too much. And this is why we unintentionally forget way too much when we do not want to go back to something.

I do treasure nice memories, but I don't really remember how it feels when I'm not in that exact moment.

I don't think people remember the feeling of moments like this—moments where things like time does not seem to exist, or at least love has found a way to distort it.

I think we do not really remember the times when we lose ourselves completely in small fragments of time. I think when we lose a part of ourselves in those fragments, we never get that part of ourselves back. It stays in that moment forever and we move on with our lives, remembering it happened but forgetting how our souls danced in a place we'll only go back to when we experience those moments again, but when we're not in that place, we are in the reality—and reality does not entertain the ideas of a soul dancing in a made-up, spiritual place.

And so I held him tighter, feeling his body even more and letting my soul dance and not caring about anything else because this might not matter later, but I'm not there yet: I'm in the "now" and in a place that's anything but the reality, the "now" is the only thing that matters.

"You are the love of my life," he suddenly said, with a voice full of seriousness and a face with a smile trapped in it. "You, a speck of dust in this vast universe, is this another speck of dust's universe."

Of course, I am. I know I am. When love's real, you can feel it. When love's real, the universe tells you it is—it's how time serves as a truth-teller. It's why a love that's unreal, is not a love that'll last forever.

"I am so happy to have found you," I whispered as I stared at his face.

People who are not in love would never know how divine it is to stare at the love of your life's face. It's not attraction—or maybe, yes, it actually is, but a different kind of attraction. It's not the type of attraction you feel for someone good-looking, it's the type of attraction that comes from a place so exclusive in your heart, it's as if you've become a magnet attracted to that one person and appearances don't matter anymore. You're attracted because you just are. You're attracted because that's where your heart feels at home. It's one of those things only people really in love would understand.

"I like it when you look at me."

"Why?" I asked as I felt his fingertips playing with my hair still covered in shampoo.

"Because of your eyes," he paused for a while and continued answering, "There's an infinite number of things our eyes could look at, but when you look at me, I feel like the greatest thing there is. I feel special, I feel as if I'm better than that infinite number of other things."

"That's because you are."

And that was the last thing I said before we made love in the shower, with our souls still dancing in the place away from reality. It's a feeling so ethereal, something that feels like it was crafted just for the both of us and just for this exact moment alone. And it might not be something that'll be as special tomorrow as it is right now, but I need not worry about that because this feeling wasn't made for tomorrow, it was made for the "now".

**

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but what was that?"

"I don't wanna be confined in the hospital," she repeated and I felt emotional, maybe even a bit triggered. I'm not necessarily angry, but I did not at all like what she just said.

Mrs Sherine is the last patient I have this afternoon and I've had a long, tiring day.

"Ma'am, you've had a heart attack again after only three years! And the risk of you getting another one is higher now more than ever. I have explained very well that you are in heart failure which should be taken very seriously considering your kidneys are also not doing quite well!" I exclaimed out of concern.

I hate seeing my patients die when I know I can still give them time. I didn't choose to become a doctor just to let people who can still live pass away. I have handled a lot of death certificates with the words "myocardial infarction" in their cause of death, and although I'm a cardiologist, I could never get used to it.

I was surprised when she laughed softly. I returned to my composure and waited for what she'll say.

"I have lived a good life, my dear," she said slowly as if making sure I understand every word she says. I took a deep breath and listened to her. "I do not have any regrets or fears about the afterlife. I am satisfied with how I have lived this beautiful life."

"You don't even believe in God."

She has been a patient of mine for a few years now. We know each other quite well. Considering her children are too busy to take her health seriously, I've always felt responsible to look after her all the time as if she was my own mother, which is a feeling I think rooted not only from concern but also from the fact that I don't know who my biological parents are.

She laughed once again and grabbed my hand. The moment I felt her warmth, I felt myself getting calmer.

"I do not believe in the church and the men who talk in the name of God; that's different from not believing in God, Tatianna," she explained with her signature warm smile and that soft voice of hers, "I believe He is there, yes, but I do not put my faith in those who make laws and orders in His name. I believe in His love and kindness, not in another mere human being's rules, nor a book they wrote to gain power. And I believe He wouldn't consider me not worshipping and not praising Him all the time a sin because He is kind, and a kind God is an understanding God, not a greedy God."

"I get it, Ma'am." I sighed and squeezed her warm hand. "But if God could talk to you now, I bet He'd tell you to get confined. He would want you to continue living to take care of the life and body He has given you."

"I believe He, who is there, would understand when an old lady who wants to rest, Tatianna. And if He wants me to fight, He would let me know."

I wanted to tell her that she's wasting away a gift of God by thinking it's her time and that God gives signs, but I decided to let her be. I know I can't force a patient who does not want to be treated, and Mrs Sherine—regardless of how much I care for her—is just my patient.

"I don't wanna spend the last of my days seeing only these white walls and these white uniforms, Tatianna. I wanna spend it just like how I've spent it my whole life: out into the world, finding adventures one after the other, feeling, knowing, and owning that I am alive and that this heart of mine that's although failing, has been filled with the beauty of life," she declared with passion in her voice, "I've been dying the moment I became alive, what difference does having an illness make?"

"You can fill your heart more if you live longer," I answered and she slowly shook her head, making it evident that she's certain of what she's gonna say next.

"Your heart doesn't get filled more with time, my love. The beauty of life isn't like a water dispenser constantly filling your glass—your heart—in the same amount until it's full."

I'm a doctor. I only know the anatomy of the heart and everything that can kill or heal it. I've never compared it to a glass of water, and I do not think someone would study a glass of water for lots of years like how I studied the heart. I respect Mrs Sherine but I find this conversation stupid, and this comparison unnecessary.

"Your heart is a book." Great. Now we're comparing an organ that pumps blood to an object that binds papers. "It can only be filled if you choose to write in it. And one could write for two months and create a beautiful book, while some could live for several decades and not write anything at all. Life is not about getting more time, it's about making it worthwhile, even if it's not much."

She paused for a moment, looking down and wearing a sad gaze as if remembering something, maybe a fragment of time in all the years she has lived, and then faced me again.

"It's not about counting days, Tatianna. It's about making your days count."

"That's poetic, ma'am. That would be a beautiful thing to say when you're kissing your grandchildren good night or when they come to you talking about their dreams in life," I said, maintaining the sound of respect in my voice because I know it could rather come off as rude. I sighed as I look at her. "However, I am not your grandchildren. I am your doctor and I do not see any pages in your heart to write in. I only see how it's failing to pump correctly and healthily enough for you to live longer."

I don't want to argue with Mrs Sherine. All I feel for her is concern. I want her to live longer, as one would want the same for their own mother.

Don't get me wrong, I love my parents who adopted me when I was still a baby—I love them with all my heart, but I also love my biological parents, although I no longer have any memory of them considering I was so little when they left me, I wasn't even able to walk yet. I still don't understand how people could find reasons to abandon their own flesh and blood and not find reasons not to, but I pray for them and wish they're healthy wherever they may be, and I want the same for Mrs Sherine.

It feels as if I'm expressing my love for those two strangers by pouring it all to Mrs Sherine instead.

"Is it about the fees? Do you not want to burden your children?" I asked and she paused for a few seconds and shook her head. I again let out a sigh. "Don't worry any longer, I'll take care of everything, Mrs Sherine."

To my surprise, she just listened to me, smiling. I kind of expected her to jump in joy or cry in gratitude, but she just looked at me warmly, as if I was a clueless little girl.

Nevertheless, I continued talking as she listened to me.

"You won't have to worry about a thing. I'll bring you nice food, I'll make sure your heart's as healthy as it can be and I'll contact your children often to convince them to visit so you won't feel lonely in here. We could also go out from time to time, and you can make as many requests as you wish to make."

She looked down at my hand and gently closed her eyes.

"You are a good person, Tatianna," she muttered slowly and very sincerely. She opened her eyes again to look at me. "I see you have made other people's books beautiful and better, but I do not see that you have done the same for your book."

I was getting annoyed about how she would constantly refer to people's hearts as just mere books. I didn't study for a decade to operate and cure books. They're nothing like our hearts. Her heart is dying and books don't die.

With that, I chose to just accept her choice and we wrapped things up with me reminding her to take the medicines I have prescribed, along with some of the other medicines I already told her to take back then.

I did not listen to her words at that moment. Looking back, I figured that that moment was the opposite of those that only matter when they're happening. That moment with Mrs Sherine was a moment that never mattered to me as it happened but means the world to me now.