Since the stitches from the surgery had been removed, I often found myself stroking the scar on my chest. Fingers sneaking unnoticed down the neck of my sweater, touching the 15 centimetres of pink, slightly raised tissue that sliced my chest wall in two. The scar lay between my breasts and stretched up towards the collar bones, not near enough that I had to wear a turtleneck to hide it, but so close that I threw out all my old tops.

It reminded me of my grandma, who’d had her sliced up chest hidden behind cotton as well – a heart attack at 43. If I had to guess, her dressing choices had less to do with actual covering up though, and more so with what she felt was decent. Nevertheless, it comforted me to think of us as the same. She’d always been so warm, with her strong arms ready to embrace at any time, her unwavering voice and calm manner a guiding light for all our troubles.

My scar was, of course, not a battle wound like hers, not a mark of fighting an invasion and emerging beat up but victorious. It was the mark of failure and weakness. I wasn’t ready to admit it yet, but the surgery had been a failure, not delivering on the promises made, leaving me with more sadness than I went in with. And still, I held on to what I’d been told after the whole-body scan, forcing a belief upon the scar, that something must have changed for the better since it was there.

I touched it now, sitting by the second story window and looking absent mindedly at Paul working in our flower beds. Beneath it, I could feel my new synthetic heart beating just as the old one had, a steady rhythm of contracting and expanding. Was I supposed to be so aware of it? Feel it’s presence like I did? Was it just because it had a different shape than I was used to? I pictured the hologram of my original heart in the palm of a doctor as he had pointed to the middle of it, circling an extra compartment that lay snug against the others.

Your heart has five compartments instead of the usual four, she had explained to us, moving the heart closer so we could get a better look. I remembered studying it without understanding, not comprehending that this could be possible, even though she told us I wasn’t the first. With my mouth open, and the words stuck in my throat, my eyes wandered instinctively to Paul. He reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it firmly before addressing the doctor.

What does that mean? His voice was as steady as always, but I could tell by the crease between his eyebrows that worry was burning his insides. Worry for me, about my life, it didn’t matter that the doctor assured us I would be physically fine. I, as well, was aflame with it; how terrible, how awful, this must be for him. Sitting here and learning that I had a deformed heart, having to ask all the questions, having to bear the burden of being okay, while I was paralyzed with shock.

Down in the flower bed, Paul shifted from his left side to the right, pulling me back from the softly lit doctor’s office. He must be getting hungry, had been working for hours. I vaguely remembered him slipping out of bed, the room still cast in darkness, and shortly thereafter hearing the doors to the garden shed open.

As I walked downstairs to the bright, open kitchen – resisting the urge to move my hand to the scar – I tried not to think about the too familiar pressure in my chest, the slight degree of sadness creeping around in my throat. It was pointless, I thought, as I came to a stop in a large pool of sunshine by the window sink. Closing my eyes, breathing deeply, focusing on the warmth on my face, grabbing the cool marble countertop.

The heart will kick in, I whispered to myself, before opening my eyes and turning to the fridge. I grabbed a large box of cherry tomatoes, two lemons and a pack of fresh pasta, then went to the pantry and fetched some garlic. Cutting it into tiny bits while the oil heated in a pan, my mind cruised immediately back to the pressure, unable to let go of the unnecessary heaviness and the question of why I still felt like this.

As soon as the garlic was sizzling in the oil, I let my hand sneak under the collar of my sweater, not even bothering to wash my hands. I stroked the scar, feeling the pressure decrease by a smudge, allowing me to breathe a bit easier.

The timer on the tomato sauce was halfway through when I heard the front door open.

You cooking? Paul called cheerfully from the entryway. A moment later he came smiling into the kitchen, doing a small dance on his way to me and then pulling my body into a tight embrace.

I relaxed in his arms, breathing in his smell, and for a moment my heart swelled with simmering love. The tingling feeling spreading quickly to the rest of my body, I reached up to kiss him, catching his lips unaware. I noticed how his body immediately responded, how his breath caught, and his gaze intensified, and then, the bubbling tomatoes and pot of almost boiling water caught my eye, snapping me out of the moment. Instantly, the sadness doubled down on me – for not being able to stay in this moment, for thinking about food that might burn and water that might evaporate and, as Paul’s hands wandered under my newly washed white sweater, his fingers that hadn’t been washed since coming in from the garden.

Quickly, before his hands could roam any further, I unbuttoned his pants and felt my breath grow shallow, not because of arousal, but because the capacity of my lungs was shrinking by the minute.

I tried to ignore it and drew him in tighter, grabbing his flesh and nudging him inside me, driven by a need for having him as near me as possible, for disappearing into his chest and losing sight of my uncontrollable emotions, and most importantly, not letting him sense them. But the thought of the sauce burning in the pan held me at an arm’s length from forgetting, and I stayed acutely aware of how hard it was to breathe. How the pressure in my chest had grown to a crushing weight that had my throat aching and eyes stinging.

It was only a few minutes before he came, and just as he did my chest collapsed in on itself. Even though I knew my body was working just as it should, that this was nothing but a skewed perception, I couldn’t get air to go down into my smashed lungs, couldn’t figure out how to move my tongue and form the words that I needed to. I’d fallen into a dimension beneath my own and the only thing linking me to reality were Paul’s warm hands. Cupping my face through a portal while catching his breath, keeping me from floating away.

I gave him a minute and then squeezed out that I was going to the bathroom, wriggled myself from his hands and turned off the stove before walking to the bathroom at a speed that hopefully appeared normal. Closing the door behind me, I crashed to the floor and curled myself into a ball, forming a cage around my stupid, synthetic heart, the thing that was supposed to cure me. And the pain burst out with a silent scream, tears tumbling down onto the black and white tiles, it was as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of broken glass. Clasping a hand over my mouth, I tried to control myself so Paul wouldn’t hear, so he wouldn’t think I was dying, so I wouldn’t have to put my rotting insides into words.

The fingers of the other hand were already pressed against the scar, rubbing it vigorously, almost clawing at the chest. As if they wanted to rip it open and tear out the failed solution.

As I tried to catch my breath and calm it, my mind went back to the doctor’s office again, where the doctor had explained the effects of a fifth compartment to us.

We can’t really confirm much at this point, she had said with a small grimace, the research just isn’t there yet. But one of the leading theories is that the fifth compartment causes extra blood to be pumped, and with the extra vein that’s attached to it, it can then deliver more oxygen to the brain. In theory, this might be a positive thing, enhancing overall cognitive performance, but for some reason, the main thing that ties people with hearts like these together is a state of heightened feelings and emotional build-up.

Is that something you identify with? she’d asked, before telling us about a promising synthetic heart trial which addressed the added emotional load by removing its power bank. It was fairly simple and would probably prevent another mental breakdown.

I didn’t realize until the bathroom door creaked open that I hadn’t locked it. Paul’s head popped in and I could hear the beginning of a question starting to part from his lips, but as soon as he saw me lying on the floor it halted. Instead, he slipped through the crack – not able to open the door properly as my body was in the way – laid down behind me and pulled me close to him.

Hey, you, he said, quietly, kindly, planting a gentle kiss on my neck. I knew he wanted me to tell him what was happening, but the words didn’t come. There was silence for a long time, just two humans on a bathroom floor. When I finally managed a sentence, it was not the one I expected.

I feel like my life has been wasted, I whispered. I could only vaguely remember a time when the pressure in my chest had not been present. Where I enjoyed things without that touch of sorrow that seemed to have its own life within me. In the past, a long distant past, I could sense a crossing, from a limitless joy to my current state of struggling to exist, but maybe that was an illusion. Maybe I had always been this way, from the very start.

Before the transplant, even before the whole-body scan, I had existed with the sadness and pressure, a cohabitation I had long given up on dissolving. Having tried what felt like everything before giving up, the news about my five-compartment heart had made so much sense to me after the initial shock had passed. Of course it wasn’t me, or my circumstances, or my life. There was never anything I could have done differently, I’d thought to myself, I just had a faulty organ.

And then I’d been offered a solution. A potential one, at least, and a promising one as well.

The heart was supposed to fix it, I mumbled, thinking about my original five compartment heart beating in a synthetic life box grown from my cells, being scrutinized by faceless doctors. It made me nauseous to imagine and had my chest aching from something other than the regular pressure; the thing inside it – the synthetic heart grown in the very same box my old heart currently lived in – feeling alien.

I rubbed the scar, feeling tears start forming in my eyes again.

You don’t feel like it has helped at all?

Although I’d never explicitly said that it had, I hadn’t exactly told him the truth either. The thought of saddening him crushed my heart, even more so than my general lack of joy. I turned in his arms, so I could look him in the eyes.

Not really, I confessed. Hesitating for a second before saying the rest, I stared at his face, looking for signs of cracking, for a crease or a frown or a shimmering tear. Not finding any, I burried my tear-streaked face in his shirt and let go of the whole truth.

Honestly, I said, allowing my voice to crack, it’s gotten worse. I think I hoped too much, you know? I was fine, before, I’d gotten used to the sadness, but now that I know I had a shot at something else, it’s even more intense. And I feel like everything’s been such a fucking waste, my whole life. I’m a failure, a weakling. And what’s the point of it all? With all this pain that won’t go away. And this heart, I pull my sweater down so the pink scar is visible, this bloody awful heart, it feels like a foreign fucking object sitting in there, not doing what it was supposed to do.

I jabbed madly at my chest with one finger, rolling away from Paul and onto my back.

I can feel it, you know. You’re not supposed to feel your heart. It’s supposed to just be.

For a long time, there was silence, interrupted only by our breathing – his steady and slow, mine shallow and fast.

I’m sorry, he said at last, and I rolled my head to look at him. His eyes were big and glassy, his lips pressed together and turned slightly downwards.

I’m sorry, he repeated, reaching out a hand and grabbing mine.

It’s okay, I said without thinking, a strained smile on my face.

I think we should go out in the garden, I added and wiped my nose with my sweater. Some mud on the hands might do me good.

And the sun, he chimed in.

And the fresh air, I said.

We smiled at each other and stood up, still holding hands, and for a moment, no pressure or sadness entangled with them.

Exiting the front door and walking around to the back, I thought of my grandma again. And I wondered, for the first time, if she might have felt a similar way; a pressure in her chest, a slight degree of sadness lingering to everything. So kind, but so serious, I never saw a photo of her smiling. Did she feel our burdens as her own, did she take them on so we could be joyful?

The thought deflated the pressure that was already starting to build up and as we sat down in the flower bed, I looked at Paul and told him,

I’ll be okay.

Even though I wasn’t sure of that at all.