JP....

A life with no joy... but Vesth

I was born on November 18, 1998, in the ancient city of Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. The records show that I was born exactly at 8:18 in the morning. It is said that when my mother tried to feed me for the first time, I rejected it, even though I had only been alive for a few hours. I do not know how true that story really is.

Despite that, I grew up strong and healthy.

My childhood, overall, was good. I had four siblings: Jesse, John, Chloe, and Iofi. Jesse and John were much older than I was, so I did not interact with them very much. Chloe was my partner in adventures and games throughout my childhood. Then there was Iofi—she was like a treasure. No matter how you looked at her, she always managed to bring happiness into life.

Life at home was good. There was always good food and plenty of space to grow, even with the country’s limitations. I vividly remember the way Chloe, Iofi, and I used to play together. It was always so much fun. Looking back, I think those were some of the best moments of my life.

Iofi passed away on March 24, 2009, at only nine years old. A few days before she died, I stole her popsicle from the refrigerator. I remember how angry she was—it felt as if fire could emanate from her body. Before she died, she told me, “When I go to Heaven, I will tell God that you stole my popsicle.” Since then, I have never been a big fan of ice cream. I know she did not say it in a malicious way, but I took it very personally. I felt as though I had been one of her sources of sadness.

Time passed. Chloe and I tried to move forward. We laughed many times after that, but I cried at night for Iofi, my dear Iofi. I always made sure no one saw me crying. I could not bear it. I kept telling myself, “I have to be strong. I need to take care of Chloe.”

School was generally good. It had its boring moments, of course, but I was always considered an intelligent student. I did not have to try very hard; I simply did what was necessary, and that was enough. I consistently did well.

Throughout school, I was always with Kanita Hadžić and Kenan—though I cannot remember Kenan’s last name, to be honest. Along with Chloe, we were the most mischievous and energetic group, though we did not cause serious trouble. We lived on the outskirts of Sarajevo, away from the city center.

Once, we gathered some money and traveled without our parents’ permission to the city of Banja Luka. The police detained us there, returned us home, and fined our parents. I remember how angry my parents were. They even put a GPS tracker on my ankle so they would always know where I was. Now, I look back on that with some humor.

Time continued to pass, and Iofi was always in my memory.

On May 10, 2011, I took my usual private transport to school. I was sleepy, as I often was in the mornings. Suddenly, a van crashed into the side of the car. The damage was severe. I remember losing consciousness after suffering multiple injuries: several broken ribs and a fractured jaw in multiple places. I vaguely remember paramedics pulling me out of the car. I also remember a young woman, around 23 years old, who provided first aid. I remember her clearly because she was incredibly beautiful. I have always loved elves in literature—beings portrayed with beauty beyond mortal reach—and she reminded me of that.

I spent approximately a month in intensive care. When I woke up, I learned that my spine had been damaged and that my legs could barely move. It was torture. I had to undergo long rehabilitation. Climbing the stairs to my bedroom at home required help, and often I did not have it. Chloe was there, but many things had happened that made her unwilling to help me in that way.

Over time, I healed. My body has always been good at recovering from injuries.

A few years later, I finished secondary school and decided to join the Bosnian army. I have always believed in fulfilling one’s duty. However, that decision turned out to be a mistake—something I may explain more fully another time. I was 16 when I joined and 18, nearly 19, when I left.

Afterward, I moved to Slovenia for a short time—about eight or nine months. Things did not go very well there. I tried to start a romantic relationship with someone much older than me. She was 28 at the time, a teacher from South Korea. She was not a bad person. We did not fight; it simply did not work. It was not love. It felt more like we were taking care of each other in the ways we could.

Later, I moved to Colombia. After some time of doing nothing, I decided to start working. It was my first formal job. The experience was not the best, but it was not terrible either. I met many people there, including one of my partners.

With that partner, I truly saw how life can be two very different things: a paradise that, despite its complications, can bring immense happiness—or a kind of hell. I have always believed that loyalty is everything, especially during difficult times. However, that person did not give me that loyalty. It is something that now belongs to the past.

There was a moment when I held tightly to the idea of building a family. We tried to have children, and she was pregnant for seven months. We had already chosen a name for what would have been our first daughter. But medical complications took that dream away—a dream that had felt so real.

We continued together for some time after that. I even moved to another city to try to build a new life, driven by my belief in loyalty, no matter how difficult the circumstances.

When I returned to the city in 2024—I had been living in Bogotá for a while—I learned that Chloe, my sister who was only one year younger than me, was bedridden in a hospital. We had not spoken for a long time. Shortly after I returned to Medellín, she passed away. It was a blow I believed I could not survive.

A few days later, during an outing with friends, I met Valeria. Simply seeing her face lit something inside me.

Valeria has always been complicated—or perhaps that is just how I see it. But from the moment I met her until today, I have believed she is someone worth risking everything for—someone worth putting everything I have on the table.

A few months later, we began dating romantically. However, she has always doubted my loyalty. Once, I called my friend Lisa “baby girl” in a chat. I did not mean it romantically or suggestively, but I think she took it the wrong way.

Before being with her, I had also spoken to someone named Evelyn, whom I met on a virtual adult entertainment site. I never had anything with Evelyn—no romantic or sexual interest whatsoever. Since I met Valeria, I have been completely faithful to her.

At one point, she even accused me of having sexual encounters with a neighbor I do not even know. These accusations exist only in her imagination. I do not know how else to explain it. Loyalty, to me, is everything. I could live without water if I had to—but I do not believe I could live without Valeria.