Being born with restrictive cardiomyopathy paralyzed my world. The hospital gave me a deadline: I would live until 14 if I didn't get a heart transplant in time. It wouldn't guarantee a normal life, but it would give me at least 5 more years.
The miracle arrived when I thought the end was near. I was in the hospital, waiting for the death that would take me in a few days, when a nurse walked in saying "There's a new heart..." Apparently, a girl had been in a motorcycle accident; they told me there was no hope for her, and that's why they donated her heart to me. The operation took place that same night, and immediately after the treatment, the doctor predicted at least 6 more years of life. My parents were happy. And therefore so was I, even though it meant continuing a boring life. Because of my condition, I couldn't do a lot of things a normal teenager could.
Now I am 16. And I pretend I’m not going to die in three years. I thought my condition wouldn't get any more complicated, until I met him. Dilan. Those black eyes that made my heart leap dangerously truly captivated me instantly. I didn't talk to him; I only knew he was from the school across from the hospital I go to. I would see him leave at noon, coming out of class with a bitter expression, while I was leaving my weekly appointment with the cardiologist.
How do I know his name? I heard his group of friends call him that more than once in front of the school. He must be about 18, tall, with dark hair and pale skin. Always with a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and a smile that hid what he was feeling.