I feel my eye twitch, but my mother cuts through the tension with a smile, her tone warm but not blind.
“You should eat more, Sasha,” she says softly. “At least try the medovik I baked for you.”
Her sweetness is a balm I don’t deserve. Still, I can’t look at her again. She’ll see too much. She always does.
Dinner drags on, suffocating in its civility. My father shifts to discussing contracts and meetings; my mother’s voice brightens when she talks about her new makeup brand, soon launching in Bangkok. Maksim hums along absently, already halfway gone in his own world. I move rice around my plate.
Eventually, the plates are cleared. Maksim disappears first, whistling some off-key tune, his energy leaving the room hollow. My father retreats to his study, and I spend some time listening absently to my Mom talk about family drama. I’m halfway down the front steps when Anton falls into stride beside me, hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets.
“You’re slipping,” he says quietly.
I don’t bother looking at him. “What?”
He taps the side of his temple with two fingers. “Up here. Something’s eating at you.”
“I’m fine.”
He stops walking. The weight of his silence forces me to stop too. His expression is calm, collected, but there’s a faint crease between his brows; it’s concern, not accusation. That’s Anton. He doesn’t waste words, but he notices everything.
“Who is it?” he asks, voice steady. “Does it have anything to do with that painting… or the server?”
For a split second, I slip. My surprise must flicker in my eyes, because his sigh is quiet, almost resigned. He’s always been the observer. When I don’t answer, he shakes his head, but not in judgment.
“Look. I don’t care what it is. Just don’t let it cloud your head. You don’t get distracted. Not unless it’s serious.”
He waits, eyes on me, before adding, “If you need help—”
“I don’t.”
My tone is sharper than I mean it, but I don’t take it back.
He studies me a moment longer, then nods once, turning toward the house. “Just be careful, Alex.”
The words trail after me, heavier than his footsteps.
I carry them with me all the way to the car.
SIX
LUCAS
The train ride feels longer than it should, every mile stretching like an elastic band ready to snap. I grip the edge of the seat, trying to steady my nerves, but my hands won’t stop trembling. The phone in my hand vibrates again, and another message appears on the screen.
Mom:Lucas please, I need you.
It’s getting bad this time.
Please come home.
I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw tightening. I shouldn’t be on this train. I shouldn’t have answered her call last night, listening to her sobs crackle through the connection, begging for help like she always does. I’ve ignored the texts for weeks—months, even. But last night?
Last night, she was hysterical.
I hate her. Or at least, I want to. It’s easier to hold on to the anger. To remember how she fell apart when I needed her most. How she drowned herself in bottles and bad choices while I sat in my room, learning how to navigate a world with trauma and without sound. How she let me become invisible.
But it’s still her. And I loved her once.
Even now, as the train slows near the stop to the trailer park, my stomach twists; it’s been years since I last saw her. The last thread between us snapped the day I lost everything and realized she would rather numb herself with men, smoking, and drinking than fight for me.
