Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Instead, I clear my throat because if I touch her now, I won’t stop there.
“Come sit,” I say quietly.
She hesitates, but eventually walks toward the kitchen table. Her posture is stiff, her chin high, and every part of her fighting not to show how vulnerable she feels. I reach for a bottle of vodka out of habit and unscrew the cap, but she lifts a hand.
“No,” she says. “I don’t want a drink.”
“It’ll relax you,” I tell her. “You look like you’re vibrating out of your skin.”
“I can’t,” she says, and something in her voice shifts. A new tension. A tiny crack. “I’m on a new medicine. You’re not supposed to drink on it.”
It’s a reasonable answer, but her eyes slide away when she says it, and something in her tone is off. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t push. I watch her for a long moment, filing away the unease building under her words.
Instead, I set the vodka aside and pour her a glass of water. I push the glass toward her. She takes it and holds it between both hands like she needs something solid to cling to.
She sits in silence for a long time before speaking again.
“I grew up in foster care,” she says quietly. “I moved around a lot. Nobody ever seemed to want me for very long. There were so many different houses, so many different rules, so many people who didn’t actually care if I was taken care of. They just wanted the paycheck that came from the state. I learned to survive by keeping my head down and carrying my own weight.”
I lean against the counter slowly, trying not to show how her words affect me. But something dark and protective curls deep in my chest, growing heavier with every sentence.
She twists the water glass between her palms, staring at the table.
“When you grow up like that, you learn not to depend on anyone. You learn not to believe anyone who says they care. Because people leave. They always leave. Or worse, they stay and make you wish they hadn’t.”
She takes a shaky breath.
“So when someone suddenly acts like they give a shit whether you live or die, it feels like I’m losing control of everything. Like I’m becoming someone I don’t recognize.”
My hands curl into fists. The image of her as a child, small, alone, and unwanted, makes molten anger simmer under my skin. Uncontrollable rage surges through me at strangers from decades ago, people I will never meet but would gladly destroy for making her feel this way.
“You deserved better,” I say.
She lets out a tired laugh under her breath.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But I didn’t get better. I got what I got. And I survived it.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Survival is admirable. But it should not have been necessary. She should not have needed to scrape her way through childhood like a stray dog fighting for a dry place to sleep.
She looks up again, meeting my eyes. Something softens in her expression and electricity sparks across my skin.
“You don’t have to fix everything,” she whispers. “I know you want to protect me. But you don’t have to fix me.”
My jaw tightens as if someone hooked their fingers into it. “I’m not trying to fix you.”
Her brows lift slightly, challenging me.
I draw a slow breath and repeat the same words I’ve already said, hoping maybe they’ll get through this time. “I’m just trying to keep you alive.”
Her lips part, but she says nothing. Something in her gaze shifts again, flickering between wariness and gratitude.
I move to the couch and sit, if only to keep from reaching for her. She hesitates before following, like she’s crossing some invisible threshold. She sits at the far end, legs tucked under her, hands folded in her lap. The distance between us feels simultaneously too large and too small.
I look out the window and clear my throat.
“When I was young, my father sent my brother and me to Moscow for the summers. We lived with an uncle who hated everything. His wife. His job. The world. He drank all the time and shouted at us for breathing too loud.”
Her eyes soften as she listens.
“One night he got drunk and locked us outside by accident. It was winter. There was snow everywhere. I remember pressing my back against the wall, trying to stay warm while my brother wrapped his jacket around both of us. We stayed there until morning, when someone finally found us. I was sure we were going to freeze to death.”
She inhales sharply. “Samuil, I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “It was a long time ago.”
But even as I say it, I feel the weight of it all over again. The cold. The fear. The helplessness. And something twists inside me when I realize I’m telling her this story. I’ve never told anyone this. Not Davýd. Not even my own mother.