— Ania?  You are here?  — I heard my neighbor's voice, so I jumped out of the bed I was lying on, watching another movie and looking for inspiration to write the next chapter.  I wanted it to be something special, something that would be easy and fun to read.  I stopped playing "Love Actually." Our neighbor brought watermelon husks for our cows, and I felt emotional and thought about how many times people around us helped us without expecting anything in return. Now I fully agreed with the lector: love  is everywhere. And it is different. The neighbors can also love and help. Many times, when money was scarce, many years ago, it was thanks to these people that we managed to survive.  these were never hungry. Older people who remembered the times of World War II and knew poverty and hunger better than others, were able to share everything with others. They taught me to love and respect everyone. They taught me that each person has his own story  , his own burdens that he carries on his shoulders, and therefore we must be understanding with everyone.

I poured the shells into a special green bucket, throwing a plastic bag into the garbage.  I returned to my room and lit another cigarette that day.

I always smoked in secret from my parents, I didn't want them to find out and be disappointed in me.  It was enough that they were disappointed with the fact that I wasn't working.  They said that I was always chasing some unreal dream, that I wouldn't get anything from writing, but I didn't want to believe them.

— I don't understand... So many people are loved by others, they want to be happy, they want to be alive and yet they die. And then there's me, who wants to die, who isn't loved by anyone, who was only causing troubles... Why am I still alive and all these people are dead? Why? They wanted to live, they deserved to be alive, why? — I asked myself, looking at my laptop screen. 

Outside, I could hear my parents bustling around with their pets and the whirr of other neighbors' brush cutters.  Flies flew around me, but they didn't bother me much.  I had a pretty mess on a massive wooden bench built by my dad.  In addition to a bottle of water and two little Tymbarks apple-cherry, there was also a box of half-eaten Alte Excellenz chocolates with alcohol, a bag of apples, a ball of navy blue yarn, which my little, two-month-old kitten, Gasly, was playing a moment ago.

I stared at the screen of the phone, which on the Instagram homepage had just displayed a joint photo of Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda.

Both were Formula 1 drivers driving for the AlphaTauri team.  Pierre was a tall, solid, well-built, handsome French with milk chocolate hair and bright ocean eyes.  Yuki was his opposite: short, with narrow, typical Japanese eyes and a funny round face, he looked very funny, but also somewhat cute.

Yuki was known for his sharp tongue, he never held back from saying what he thought.  Once, during a meeting with fans before one of the races, he called Pierre his boyfriend.  I had no idea if he was joking, if he did it at the behest of his AlphaTauri F1 team, or if he really thought Pierre was his boyfriend.  I didn't believe in love anymore, so it occurred to me that AT was just telling Yuki to pretend he was flirting with Pierre in order to attract the LGBT community to Formula One.  It seemed to me the most likely. Although it was really sad if they really needed to do something like this...

Some time later, after I had smoked a cigarette and concealed all the evidence, my parents returned home.

— She's just playing and having fun, doing nothing all day — My father shouted at me as he came over and angrily raised his hand up as if to hit me.

Sometimes I loved my parents, but often we hurt each other.  Memories returned.  Even though it hurt the same every time, I didn't cry anymore, I didn't even let them know that something was wrong.  I played mean, rude and strong in front of my parents.

— Go cut firewood into the kitchen — My mother instructed.  She never asked me to do something, never asked if I could do it, it was always orders.  I loved her, but I didn't like her, if that makes any sense.

I sighed and looked away from the phone screen.  I had an idea what to write, but I didn't have time.  I was afraid that before I came back I would have time to forget what I wanted to write.  It happened to me sometimes.  I closed my laptop, tucked it under my pink pillow with white stars, and went outside.  On the way, I looked at the rabbits.  A month earlier, three tiny, colorful, sweet, fluffy balls were born.  I loved them with all my heart.  I walked over to the cage and took one out, studying it and stroking its tiny neck.  Then I noticed that one eye was blue and the other was brown.  I'd love to play with them, but Dad noticed me and made me go to work.

After I finished chopping wood, I went back to my room, sat on the bed, and opened my laptop again.  I also checked Instagram again and this time I saw a short video of my two favorite Thai actors running behind each other in dinosaur costumes.  They were quite childish, but I really envied them a little.  I immediately sent it to my friend Daria.

Daria was someone extremely important to me.  She was with me in the most difficult moments, she was able to amuse me and console me almost always.  And this time she understood my sense of humor perfectly well.

Daria: LET US DO A CHILL ON SUCH DINOS, PLS HA HA

Me: Yeah !!!  I want like that!  These dinosaurs are BOMB

Daria: let's buy these

Daria: and let's go on them around the world!

Me: Oh, yeah, I watched the series in which the main character is Bbomb 🤣

Me: Ha ha ha ha, good idea, love !!!

Daria: It would be beautiful

Daria: imagine, you are walking down the street, and here two crazy girls next to them are patting on inflatable dinosaurs XDDD

Me: I can already imagine the faces of people around !!!  But it would be worth it!

Daria has always been a source of energy for me and gave me strength to go on, but not only her.  There was also Olga, whom I knew from wattpad and Instagram, there was Nati, whom I knew from elementary school and with whom I still talked, and there was also Kinga, a girl I met when I was looking for a dog for myself three years earlier.  They were all unique to me and just as important.  I was grateful for their presence in my life.

I closed Instagram and turned on Spotify.  In my playlist there were songs sung by Harry Styles, Zayn, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, Ashe, Zee Pruk Panich and NuNew Chawarin.  In my opinion, Zee had the most beautiful voice of them all.

To watch Love Actually, I interrupted re-watching the Cutie Pie Series, which featured New and Zee.  They played a very cute couple in which they both kept a lot of secrets.  I found them a lovely couple, although I wasn't sure if they were together in private life.  Looking at their photos, I really wanted to believe that they were real, that what they have in common is something more than just promoting their work together.  But as I said before, somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that true love exists.

Listening to Zee's voice, deep, melodious, I lay back on the bed and plunged into dreams and memories again.

I didn't want anything big, I would only need one person who would love only me, for whom I would be the greatest treasure, and who would not clip my wings as my parents did for years.

I looked at my hands.  The entire forearms were covered with narrow scars, marks from my struggle with myself.  Each scar told a different story.  There were those from the day I argued with my first boyfriend and the evening when I realized that I would stay in the orphanage for longer.  A few of the scars came from the time I realized I liked women, and a few from the day I was thrown out of school for this very reason.  I cut myself when I had problems at school and when arguments with my parents hurt too much.  There was a time when it became an addiction that was difficult to control.  Especially when I lived alone in a small studio apartment in the city where I attended school.  After my friend kissed me, my boyfriend found out about it and broke up with me.  I know he did the right thing, I didn't deserve him, I should have pushed Alex away, not let her do it.  To this day, I don't know why I didn't do it.

I closed my eyes and started crying.

My heart was heavy, I didn't know what to do or how to move forward.  I was just an ordinary scarred girl, with a past that no one would want, and memories that came back at the most unexpected moments, ruining everything I had worked hard for.  I was on the verge of giving up, and then NuNew's voice seemed to wake me up.  I wiped away my tears, sat back at my laptop and started typing.

Many times I had nightmares in which I crossed the line between life and death, then came back, woke up and realized that it was just another bad dream.  However, the dream from the night before was not bad.  I saw Nu and Zee in it, I saw Pierre and Perth Nakhun, they were all standing in the stands of the ski jump in Wisła and were waiting for me.  This dream gave me a lot of strength, and New's voice reminded me of it.

— I will fight — I said softly to myself.  —I will give my best, I will not give up.  Maybe this is not the end of my story yet?  I have to do my best to meet Pierre in person and thank him for giving me my life back.  If it weren't for him, I'd be dead long ago.

It was true.  Thanks to Pierre Gasly, I discovered a new passion, I had never watched Formula 1 before, and when Daria told me to watch one of the races with her, I loved it with all my heart.

Why am I saying I don't believe in love?

After all, I love Formula 1, I love my friends, my parents, animals, nature, writing, I love ... But not that way ... For that matter, I felt extremely lonely.  Does a girl with my past, scars and all bad memories have a right to love?  Does she have the right to dream of something wonderful, a relationship with another person who will survive all the storms?  Do I have the right to imagine that I'm going for a walk holding someone's hand?  Do I deserve to dream that a person who loves me will give me so much courage, confidence and strength to overcome my own demons?

I doubted it.  I didn't feel like I was worth much.  All I had was a talent for writing and a good, open heart, hurt, trampled, dirty and broken, but still beating and still suffering at the sight of others' suffering.  It was all I had to offer.  It seemed to me that it was not enough, no one would love a loser with depression.  I blamed myself for it.  Remembering my parents' words that it was a shame to get psychiatric treatment and that I would not find a job after something like this, I never asked for help, even though I needed it very much.  I fought alone and my fight was words.

I really wanted to be strong, I wanted to be like everyone else, healthy, normal.  I wanted a job and a driving license.  I wanted my parents to be proud of me, but I couldn't make it so I felt worthless.  But despite this, I didn't give up.

I lived day by day without thinking about the future and trying not to worry in advance.  I enjoyed every little thing like the taste of chocolate, the smell of freshly washed sheets, the touch of the warm flesh of a little kitten named Gasly who fell asleep on my chest, not letting me move.  I learned to enjoy everything.  I realized that I could never cure depression, but I learned to live with it, I learned to hide it.  I talked to people, laughed, danced, sang, I could even be happy.

But there were days when a feeling of loneliness and nonsense enveloped me like a dark mist, pressing through my eyes and ears and into my heart, poisoning my blood and thoughts.  I suffered but never showed it to the outside.  Writing was an escape and a rescue, Formula 1 was a source of energy and hope.

Also this time, while writing, I was aware that this text would also be lost somewhere in the depths of the Wattpad, omitted and forgotten by everyone.  I didn't expect anything big, I just wanted to vent my emotions.  I was writing for a long time without noticing the passage of time.  I vaguely remember a dog barking, the screams of children on the nearby road, and the sound of the television set too loudly in my parents' room.

I only stopped writing when I felt that I couldn't take it anymore and needed to go to the toilet.  My parents forgot my existence a long time ago, staring at the TV screen.  When I took a few steps, I realized that my back hurt.  Apparently I was sitting in a very uncomfortable position.  I smiled faintly.  Parents lively commented on the events in the film they were watching.  The ginger cat, Ryoyu, was lying on the sheets, his head resting on Dad's belly.  I hated this cat because dad loved him so much, pampering him by feeding him the best food and paying him so much attention.  It pained me to hear the gentleness and tenderness with which they spoke to him.  They never said that to me.  I felt like a stranger in my own home where I grew up.

Seeing that, I couldn't help but cry, but I never cried in front of my parents.  Instead, I prepared food for the cats and took them outside.  Most cats couldn't sit at home, only Ryoyu had his privileges.

When I was younger and cried, they tried to silence me by beating me every time.  My mother was raised in this way and claimed that without beating you cannot raise your children to be decent people.  Maybe she was right?  After all, I am a decent person: I don't steal, I don't deceive anyone, I share what I have with others, I care about the feelings of others... It is difficult for me to think about it in this way, because I still remember my own fear.  And the pain.  All in all, I'm still scared ...

As I thought about it, a memory formed in my mind of when I was six and over, and my mother had dressed me in tights that the other kindergarten kids laughed at.  I didn't want to wear them, I cried and tried to take them off.  This upset Dad.  He threw me on their bed and pressed my  tiny baby body against the sheets.  I was afraid, I fought with him, and then he immobilized my hands, and he covered my mouth and nose with his big, heavy hand.  I couldn't breathe, the tears continued to flow.  I was just a toddler...

I don't know why he let me go then.  Sometimes I still wish he had held me a little longer, that I hadn't died then.

But maybe there is a purpose in having lived it all?  Maybe I was supposed to experience it to understand and describe it?

But why after all these years it still hurts so much?

Tears flowed silently as I watched the shadows cast across the yellow wall through the lace curtain.  The sun was just going down.  I heard the clink of a spoon thrown into an empty glass from behind the wall, so I quickly wiped my cheeks as if someone were going to see it.

— Oh, the water is already boiling — Mum said and took the kettle off the hob.  She put a few pieces of wood into the stove and started making tea for herself and Daddy.

— Ania, did you give food to cats? — She just asked, not even bothering to look into my room.

— I gave — I replied shortly.

Sometimes I wanted them to see me in complete disarray, suffering, hurt, lonely, unable to continue fighting, but I was too proud for that, too strong, never let my parents see how bad I was.  Or maybe they themselves didn't want to see it, maybe they were ashamed to have such a daughter.

Fifteen minutes later, I wanted to laugh until I was breathless.  I had eaten all the alcohol chocolates and my mother came into my room asking why I only brought her six dry, washed panties from the attic.

— I didn't take any of yours, no, no —  I shook my head feeling a little drunk.  I've always had a weak head for alcohol, and today I didn't eat much other than those chocolates.  A large modern blue tractor drove past the window.  For some unknown reason a shiver ran down my spine.  I shrugged and lay back on the bed to fall asleep after a while.

*.  *.  *

Someone who looked exactly like my father grabbed me in his arms and hugged me.  A few people I didn't recognize were standing around us.  We were in the cemetery, next to a fresh grave covered with bunches of live flowers.  The night turned into a gray dawn, enveloping the countryside in a light mist.  Strong emotions tugged at me, I felt tears streaming down my cheeks.  I pushed the man away and fell to my knees.  A despairing scream escaped from my lips.  I was calling someone's name.  I raised my hands up to my face, they were surprisingly large and unlike mine.  There was a small, simple metal object on my index finger, and it took me a moment to realize that it was a ring made of an iron nut.  A thick red thread was twisted around the little finger of his left hand, which stretched along the ground and disappeared inside the grave.

Suddenly the surroundings changed, there was a bright, well-lit school corridor full of teenagers in white shirts and long black pants.  There were only boys there.  I was sitting alone against the wall when someone came up to me.  I looked up hopefully, hoping to see someone I had been waiting for, but in front of me there was only an unfamiliar boy with oddly narrow eyes, a large mouth, and a rather flat, long nose.  Two pens and a pencil protruded from his shirt breast pocket.  He was holding some pages in his hands.

—  How are you doing?  —  He asked.

"
— It's okay — I replied, although I didn't feel like it at all.

"
— You're still waiting for him, aren't you? —  I heard resignation and sadness in the tone of his voice.  — Nong Sing, he won't come back, you know it as well as I do.

— Yes ...— I just replied and turned my face to the window.  Outside, the two boys started a fight with each other.  One of them pulled out a knife and stabbed the other in the stomach, only to deliver another blow a moment later, this time much higher than it seemed to heart.  Blood began to appear everywhere.  The shorter one, the wounded one, fell on the grass and received another blow, straight in the left eye.

— Nong Sing ... — He whispered as another boy ran up to him, kneeling beside him and tugging at his shoulders.  He was taller and thinner, with a small face with bushy eyebrows, a narrow mouth, and a broad nose.  His black fringe fell messily over his forehead, and tears streamed from his eyes.  It seemed to me that I was at the same time that boy named Sing and an ordinary witness to this event.

— Only one of you died that day — I heard right next to me.  — He went on, you came back.  But there is also your brother, you will meet soon.

And then suddenly I opened my eyes and saw that I was lying on the bed in a room with pink and yellow walls.  For a moment I was recovering, not understanding where I was or what had happened.  What I saw didn't look like a dream, it was more like a memory.  I was breathing loud and fast, unable to calm down.  The pain and despair were real.

— I don't have anyone else to look for, he went on —  I said to myself and cried out, feeling extremely lonely and hurt, as if someone I loved had deceived me.  I've had similar dreams more and more often lately.  Often in those dreams, I was a student at some school, a boyfriend, and with other students we talked about everything, we went shopping together in small local stores or spent our days outside, enjoying the good weather, playing football or running aimlessly behind each other.  I also saw someone who looked like Pierre Gasly there many times, even a few years before Daria showed me the world of Formula 1.

— Pierre must have been my brother in a previous life — I said softly to myself, not understanding why it sounded so familiar.  After all, it was illogical.  Is it really possible for us to live more than once?  Can a soul that has not known peace really come back?  And do soul mates really exist?

I often wrote similar stories myself, but they were completely fictional stories.

I got up and went to prepare the cat breakfast, which consisted of the leftovers of yesterday's dinner.  I looked at the dish I had prepared the previous day and froze.

How do I know how to prepare Thai dishes?  And why do these series I watch look so familiar?

A chill ran down my spine.

Am I completely freaking out?  I'm losing my mind?  Or is it normal?  Maybe there are people who feel and see more?  Maybe there are those who really live again?  What if the dreams I'm having aren't just meaningless nightmares but memories of the person I used to be?

I fed the cats and went back to my room.  Just outside the door was a large old mirror in a black metal frame that I had accidentally glanced into.  I stopped and studied my face.  I had a scar just above my left eye, the origin of which no one in my family could explain to me.  I remembered an excerpt from a series I had watched some time earlier.  Parents said I was born with this scar.  I touched this place with my hand and suddenly I felt as if I was falling into the abyss.

I was again in the same cemetery as in my dream.  I was kneeling on the ground.  I held the gun in my left hand.  I couldn't name its brand or what I was wearing.  The sun was shining.  Even the slightest gust of wind did not disturb the silence.

— P'Sorn... I miss you.

Pictures were lying next to me, but I couldn't see who they were.  Before I knew it, I heard a bang, felt a short, excruciating pain in the temple area, and everything was gone.

And then, I don't know how, I was back in my room, staring at the blurry face in the mirror.  A face I didn't recognize anymore.

— Annie, get over it, you're watching too many series — I told myself, wiping my face with the piece of pink T-shirt I was sleeping in.  — Don't imagine too much or you will go crazy.

Just in case, I decided to stop watching BL's Thai dramas.  I felt it was costing me too much.  I was the daughter of a librarian, I had read a lot of books and watched a lot of movies in my life, it is logical that my imagination was very well developed.  I decided not to think about it any longer.  If anyone in my village found out about what was going on in my head a few minutes ago, I would be locked up in a mental hospital and declared insane.  Polish villages are not a place where you can find forgiving people.  The inhabitants are simple, unread, usually farmers, manual workers or ordinary slackers living at the expense of the state.  Few people believe in a higher meaning of life, hardly anyone even believes in God.  Even I am not sure I believe in him.

Or maybe this is only the case in my village?

Either way, it's better not to lean out, not to show your otherness.  It's enough for my parents to keep reminding me that my scars make me less valuable.  I don't agree with them, but when I tried to explain it to them once, they pretended not to hear it.

I was puzzled by the question, what is it all about?  I wanted to know the answer and was afraid at the same time.  I was scared, but I couldn't pinpoint the cause of my anxiety.

I took my clean clothes, went to the bathroom, and changed quickly.  Then I brushed my teeth, combed my already greasy hair into a bun and started my classes, promising myself that I would use my dreams in the story I was working on.  I believed that for the readers it would be just meaningless fiction and that they would not criticize and hate me for it.

❤️🌈💙❤️🌈💙❤️🌈💙❤️🌈💙❤️🌈

From Author:

Hey everyone! I hope you have great day and you don't hate what I write here. This chapter is probably the hardest for me, because it's very personal.

I just wanted to ask you: what do you think about this fanfiction so far? What do you like here, what do you hate here?

And just in case that you were curious and wanted to find me on Instagram:

@ gasly_is_magical

And

@ magical_in_love

I love you all, you make me incredibly happy when I see how many of you reads this! Thank you! You are legends! Just if you can, please, leave me some comment or star or share my story on your social media to encourage me to translate more 🙏❤️🥺 please, na krub ❤️🙏🥺

~Annie