07.01 VERONIKA – Grey Morning July 14 at 06:30 – 08:30

14.7.

After the night's downpour, a thin film of water remained on the city's skin; every car splashes it into translucent fans. The air is colder than summer should allow, and steam from the drains draws white ribbons toward the sky. Drops on the railing glisten like someone's forgotten beauty marks that they forgot to wash off. And even the rustle of leaves seems softer, more cautious – as if it were afraid of disturbing that new, fragile silence.

Polaroid — Veronika, 14/7 Tom; drop on nose; ISO 800, 1/125 s. The fog blurred the shadow of the tower, leaving only a soft smudge. In the viewfinder, it looked like I was photographing fear that is afraid to be seen. When the image dried, a fine grain remained on it – like skin defending itself against the cold.

VERONIKA

I wake up to a grey morning. It's not really light outside yet and the alarm is screaming for dear life. I close my eyes, but I know it's time to get up. I don't want to. I don't want to look in the mirror and stare at that face – my face, which every day reminds me how much I miss Tom. How much I miss his attention.

I reach for my phone, scrolling my thumb up and down the screen, but everything feels so empty. As if not a single one of those messages was meant for me. Not a single like under yesterday's training photo. I browse the profiles of the other girls from the pool – they all have comments, hearts, praise. The phone drops beside the pillow again and I realize I have to start the day.

I get up and look in the mirror. I sob. It's like looking at a ship wreckage that once sailed proudly across the ocean and is now just a ruin on the ocean floor. My face is full of scars – from life. My freckles, which I hate. My red curly hair, which cannot be tamed. My jaw, which is bigger than other girls have. Why can't I look like Lucy? She has everything – a perfect body, a perfect face, a perfect boyfriend. And I only have Zuzajda, who is whimpering quietly in the kitchen right now because she needs to go out, and I have another day full of disappointment ahead of me. I glance out of the corner of my eye at the razor blade.

"Get up," I yell to my brother in the next room. "Do you hear me?" His reluctant groan tells me he wants to sleep longer. But that's life. We always have to do things we don't want to do.

Zuzajda, my tiny chihuahua, presses her nose against my ankle. I stroke her and frown. She hasn't been herself for a few days—and I'm afraid she'll need a vet. Her old joints don't allow her to jump like before and she occasionally whimpers softly when she tries to climb onto the couch. I don't have the money for another vet visit right now; I just paid the registration for the races.

I wrap myself in my coat and take her out for her morning walk. The chilled air pierces sharply into my lungs and awakens me from sleepiness. Zuzajda drags along beside me, her short little legs pattering on the wet sidewalk. I wonder if I can manage training today while taking care of both her and my brother. Sometimes I feel like everything is dragging me down like a ball and chain tied to my ankle. But I have to manage it. Like always.

When I return home, the shopping bags dig into my fingers. The plastic handle of one of them cuts into my skin like a thin blade. The silence of the apartment welcomes me like an old acquaintance I no longer want to see. It's a silence full of reproaches and unfinished thoughts.

I prepare breakfast mechanically—like a robot that has memorized its single task. Bread, butter, ham. Every day the same ritual that I don't even perceive anymore. My coffee overflowed the mug today when I poured the water, but I don't have the energy to deal with it.

I put food on the table for my brother, take care of Zuzajda, and reflect on my life. Zuzajda looks up at me with her old, tired eyes, as if she knew exactly what I'm feeling.

"I'm more than an ordinary guy," I whisper to myself with a bitter smile while looking at the kitchen counter covered in croissant crumbs. I wipe them off with my palm and sweep them to the floor. Today I don't have the energy to clean.

I have three balls—the strength to endure all this madness around me and stand firmly on my feet, even though I'd rather just lie in a tub full of hot water and slash my wrists there.

But I can't do that. Because I'm Veronika with three balls—and I have to be strong not just for myself, but for all of us here at home. Especially when my parents went abroad to solve their problems and the only thing I have is the money in the account they send. I'm more than an ordinary guy, I laugh to myself. I have three balls. WHO can say that?!

Sometimes I wonder if they even have any idea how I manage things here. My brother needs help with his homework, Zuzajda needs to go out, even though those old joints of hers aren't working like they used to. And on top of all that, that stupid Instagram and the fitness trainer who always wants something from me. I don't even have time to get a decent night's sleep, let alone think about whether I like Tom or whether I don't. My coffee already overflowed from the mug today…