There Is Always Something Left to Love

Cristian Nedelcu
Though invisible for a long time, they had started to appear. One here, another there. Slowly, they became visible. And vocal. They were the ones who had stored within themselves great compassion, great love, but had been stepped on for just a second too long. The others, from the so-called opposing camp, had been taught to despise them, to mock them, as if they didn't exist, as if they didn't belong to the same world. Seeing them, hearing that they existed, they became afraid. How could they accept this? After all, they had done everything possible to eliminate love.
 
 Manuela Meleandra
She left without looking back. The door slammed shut, her phone on silent, the thought that it was over. The streets were cold, the people rushed, and he walked without direction. What remains when there's nothing left? He stopped near a park, on a forgotten bench. Next to him, a stray dog lay down, sighing deeply. It didn't ask for anything, just stayed there. The man took his hand out of his pocket and touched the damp fur. In the dog's eyes, a question. In his palm, an answer. There is always something left to love.
 
 Andra Toropoc
You must remember this, the old man's voice trembled through the ward. Curled on the edge of the bed, he stroked her hands and sang softly. He came to the hospital every day, showering her with endless tenderness. He noticed me and said hopefully: she says I remind her of our first movie and her fingers are trembling, doesn't that mean she hears me and knows it's me? I nodded and lowered my gaze-I was lying. She didn't recognize him anymore. She couldn't. He fixed her pillow and kissed her. You're always beautiful, he whispered, and softly hummed as time goes by, until the end.

 
(Translated by Ioana Levîrdă / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)