Tanggal : 01-02-2014 02:41, dibaca 2 kali.
Oleh :Fatimah Zahra (XI IPS 2)
It’s an irony
I’ve always thought that Maths is my favorite subject. Well it is. I like it’s complexity and it’s just fun to work with an equation to solve. It’s full of challenges. Many people loath this subject, but many like it like me. But the girl in front of me, well, like probably the rest of this world, she hates Maths.
It didn’t stop me. It never stops me to love her. No matter how many times she swore she hated Maths, no matter countless times I told her that Maths is actually easy, she still hates it. No matter what. But she loves me. Thankfully, the way that I do.
But that is not the irony. It is an irony. Well, my life is full of irony. Like how I got a perfect score on my Maths exams but strugged in Physics. I don’t understand why everybody think it’s an irony but I assume they see Maths and Physics are the same; numbers, logic, etc, etc. I’m taking my master degree in Pure Mathematics.
And how, an MIT student, could meet a Oxfordian? To make it more complex, she just finished bachelor of art in English Literature and currently works in a publishing company? A company that usually publishes John Green’s books? Am I into teen-fiction-romance-kind-of-things book? No.
She reads Jane Austen’s. I read Renee Descartes’. She spends her hours in front of her laptop, typing her stories, editing some. I spends most of my times in front of papers full of things, as she says. She drinks her afternoon Earl Grey with scones and home-made butter. I drink my morning and night long black coffee with bagels or donuts or sometimes sandwiches if she made lunch for me. She listens to Bach, Mozart, and their colleagues. Me? I’m fine with some Led Zeppelins.
But we met. You call it coincidences, I call it destiny.
It was autumn. Thanksgiving’s Day. Since my mom and my step dad were in their honeymoon trip and my real dad was having Thanksgiving dinner with his clients. So I was left alone. I don’t have uncle or aunt. Both of my parents were an only child. My grandparents were died when I was child and teen. I have a sister. And she was having her dinner with her husband’s family. So, yeah, I was alone. I don’t like Thanksgiving anyway.
I still took a flight to New York. I’ve always loved Central Park when those leaves fall. It somehow makes me feel like home than my own house. Tired from the flight Massasuschet-New York, I went straight home and fell asleep. As expected, my home was empty. Like literally. No food. I thought it was best to go to the nearest diner and eat, but I didn’t go there. I went to the nearest food groceries. And finally met a girl who has deep British accent, brunette haired, and later, a pair of bright and brilliant blue eyes. She said it’s her second Thanksgiving and she loves this day to the cashier. Another irony. I wanted to greet her and ask her name, but I just stood there, behind the chocolate stacks. I took my things and went to the cashier, who was an old Indian (Asia India, not the Indians ‘cause that would be rude for her to told him that she loves Thanksgiving’s Day), and he said.
“Her name is Claire. She’s a regular, always come every two days for fresh fruits.”
I looked up from my wallet and met his eyes.
“I know what you’re doing. Don’t be stupid. Come again in 11 pm. This shop is 24 hours.”
I didn’t understand what he was saying. But then he continued.
“Last year she came here again in that hour to buy some drinks. Ah, she always forgot to bought them. I don’t know about this year, but she doesn’t buy any kind of drinks. Just try you luck. And that would be 23,5.”
I gave him a fifty, and did as he said. I was trying my luck and I finally found her. At 11:24, she came with a friend.
Later, she told me that if we met for the third time, she will accept my breakfast invitation. And you know what? We met again, and we had a nice bagel and coffee for me, salmon sandwich and a latte for her.
We made it. Despites the ironies, the odds, the doubts, and everything else, we make it works. Our relationship has became one of the few things that worth my time. I love our ironies. It becomes one of the perks of my life. And her? She has became my home.
But not this irony. The irony that I’m trying to tell you properly from the first sentence. So let’s try again. I love Maths. So basically I love counting, thinking, and make my head explode.
And let me tell you the irony, the only irony I loathed about us.
It was a like bomb dropped just exactly above my head. Her hand was around mine, sweaty. She held me tight. I held her tighter. The doctor looked at me, hesitantly, then her, this time more convinced. It was a basal cell carcinoma.
The bomb dropped, exploded in my head.
I looked at her. She was already skinny, but look at her now. She basically bones wrapped by skin. Look at the IVs. Look at the monitor that shows how weak her heart’s activy is. Look at how sunken her cheeks are. The weight loss and the hair loss. But the smile never fade. The sparks that I always found in her eyes are still there.
How many months left…
Then it became weeks…
Down to days…
And as the doctor’s prediction.
She got hours left.
I can’t stop myself to think. I can’t stop myself to think logically. I can’t stop my self from counting. The possibilities. And time.
I want me, to have some kind of faith. I want me to stop thinking logically. I want me to think positively. Logic aside. Forget the fact that her condition is getting worse and worse every time she even took her breath.
Forget that the chance of survival is below 5%, forget the fact that we found it too late, forget everything and try to think that somehow miracle is exist. But I can’t. My brain is betraying me.
She has now has only 4 hours, 32 minutes, and 24 seconds to live.
4 hours, 32 minutes, and 23 seconds…
4 hours, 32 minutes, and 22 seconds…
4 hours, 32 minutes, and 21 sec—
“You should sleep.” Her eyes are still closed but she awares of my presence. “I’ll be fine.”
No, you’re not.
“I just want to make you sure that I’m here for you.”
I just want to make sure that you’re still here and miracle happens, to be exact.
“I have no doubt on that. Jason George Weston, I’ll be fine. Go to sleep. Don’t watch me sleep.”
We never doubt each other. Claire Agnes Thompson, my brain thinks that you’re not. I want to watch you wake up.
“You have to sleep and rest.” I said, and kissed her forehead. She opened her eyes and I met those eyes. Still as bright and brilliant blue as I first met her. Still have those sparks. I thank God for the countless time.
“You’re… you’re counting, are you?” she suddenly asked with her hoarsed voice. Her blue eyes stared at grey’s mine. “I know, Jason. I know everything. I don’t fake smiles and pretend that I’m okay. I’m sick, but just like I’ve said, I’ll be fine. Do you trust me?”
I’ll always trust you, Claire. I just don’t trust the situation. I don’t trust my self. I am—
“Afraid.” I can hear my voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “I am… afraid. Terrified if I may say.”
She smiles. “Of what?”
“Losing you. Not having you around. Not being able to see you again. Not being able to talk to you or listen to your voice or smelling your scent. Even the idea of losing you it’s just terrifying me. You don’t know.”
The room went silent. The only sound that I could hear was the beeping sound from the monitor. I looked up to the ceiling. I don’t want her to see a tear streams down my face. I needed to look strong and be strong for her so that she can be strong too.
“How many time do I have left?” she suddenly asked. “The doctor said it’s between this day or tomorrow, right?”
How am I supposed to answer that?
“4 hours, 27 minutes, and 13 seconds.”
She grabbed my hand and put it on her chest. “Do you feel that? The beat of my heart?”
“I am still alive. You can count. But I’ll be fine. Alive or not, I’ll be fine. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“I love you, and loved by you. And for me, that is more than anything. I’ll be fine. And you should be. You will. Promise me you will be fine?”
I still feel her heart beat. I am fine. “I promise.”
She smiled and closed her eyes.
“Claire, I love you.” I said quietly.
“I love you too.” She said and I can hear her soft breathe. She was asleep.
I started to count. And after 5 hours, 32 minutes and 9 seconds since she said she loves me, her heart stops beating.
With a sigh, she’s gone.
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