the impact is directly on the lower jaw, and in that moment you clearly feel something burst. it is your lip. you take two steps back helplessly until you fall into the rye. through the throbbing pain you can only see the dark blue sky, streaked with gray clouds. a trembling hand slowly rises and feels the lip — the finger becomes wet. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Günther standing a few steps away, his face drained of color, his eyes filled with disappointment and horror.

You've gotten into a fight. For the first time in your life, your argument with Günther has escalated into physical altercations. Not only has this never happened before, but the atmosphere is completely unconducive to anger. It's a peaceful evening at the Scheller estate in the suburbs of Berlin. Günter and Hilda's parents had left, so the children stayed there for the weekend, bringing their friends with them. There were only four of you: you, Paul, and the two Schellers. It was a perfect day: you went boating on a picturesque lake that smelled of nature, you made strudel in the afternoon, and now you were doing your own things, forgetting about food. Hilda and Paul stayed at home, while you and Günter decided to go for a walk.

The field of golden rye warmed you even on a cool evening. The stalks flowed between your fingers as you ran your hands over them, tickling your skin. You couldn't help but smile, and the air escaped your lungs in laughter. It was a pleasant feeling, but your body couldn't relax, which made you laugh even more.

Günter didn't laugh. He kept his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes fixed on his feet or high in the sky. the birds don't fly, and only occasionally does the cool evening breeze slip through his thin shirt. Lately, he's been too preoccupied.

— Are you still thinking about Hans?

it's not that he's haunted by thoughts of him, or the past. the slight feeling of nostalgia no longer passes through his heart. he's let go, but not in the same way that children let go of balloons into the air — with ease and longing. he'd be happy if it were that easy. Scheller is silent, only shaking his head. his hair swings, as golden as the rye.

— Have you still not forgiven him?

— Shut up.

this time he is serious. the words "Hans" and "forgive" are incompatible for him. he is ready to forgive Hilda for being with Hans. he loves his sister, he never gave her offense, and even more so he will not blame her for his mistakes. but who he is not ready to forgive is Hans.

an arrogant, insatiable vulgar, who considers people around him toys to play with and throw.

— I asked you to do only one thing: not to talk about that asshole. Is it so difficult? — His teeth grind, and his hands involuntarily clench into fists. He doesn't like thinking about how weak he still is in the face of the word "forgive."

— I understand that it's unpleasant for you, but I can see that you're in pain. I just... feel sorry for you. I bet, — you decide to crack a half-joke, — you see him in your dreams every night.

that was the last thing you said before his fist connected with your jaw.

he hates being weak. he hates admitting it. he's willing to be anything: a bully, a spendthrift, a happy shell of a person, whatever, but not a weakling who can be thrown off balance by such... nonsense.

when you fell, all the anger evaporated from him. it was as if nothing had happened, just a blue sky, golden fields, and your split lip. he didn't want to believe that he was capable of such a thing. Scheller hesitated, contemplating the situation, but he eventually knelt in front of you to press a handkerchief to your lip... and then he realized.

There were only two people he couldn't forgive in this life: Hans and himself.