The Balshovs stopped being my family the moment Katya and I left that house. But no matter how far I’ve run, I can never seem to escape the shadow of it all—from Yuri paying my tuition to his rare calls that felt more like reminders of a debt than any real affection. Every time the phone rang, my stomach twisted with dread… and stupid, secret hope. Because sometimes he’d mention Alexei. Just in passing:
“Your brother’s busy…”
“Your brother’s negotiated a new contract…”
“Your brother bought another building in Manhattan.”
And I’d cling to those scraps like they meant something. Like they meant that I was still a part of his life, that maybe he was, by some tiny chance, thinking about me too.
Then, months ago, my phone rang, and it was Alexei himself.
His voice was deeper, colder. Steel wrapped in silk.
“Yuri’s dead,” he’d said. “The funeral will be handled privately. You’re not expected to attend. Your tuition remains covered. If you need anything, call me directly.”
And that was it. He’d ended the call before I even got the chance to say a word.
I remember standing there in the practice hall, still holding the phone to my ear long after the call ended, my eyes burning. I’d wanted to say I was sorry for kissing him and running away, for even crossing the boundary at all. I’d wanted to ask if he was all right. I’d wanted to tell him I still dream about that night on the patio, about the way he’d kissed me like I was something forbidden and precious all at once.
But he’d hung up.
And that was all I needed to know.
So, I never called again. I paid my own way from then on, pulling from the trust fund my real father had left me. I told myself I was free.
The ushers open the doors to the auditorium, breaking through my thoughts. The crowd inside erupts in applause as the first group of graduates files in. I lift my chin, trying to smile, trying to ignore the hollow ache in my chest.
All around me, classmates beam at their families. Mothers waving. Fathers whistling. Friends crying. I scan the rows out of habit, though I already know there’s no one in the crowd for me.
Katya couldn’t make it, so she’s streaming the ceremony online from California. She promised to pop champagne in my honor, and while I appreciate her doing that much, it doesn't do anything to alleviate the heaviness in my chest. Unlike the others, I have no one in the audience—no proud family or friends to hand me a bouquet of flowers or take me to dinner after the ceremony.
I take my seat among the graduates, smoothing my robe over my knees. The program feels heavy in my hands. I glance down at it, staring at my name printed halfway down the page under “Performance Recital.” I’ll be singing the solo aria to close the ceremony.
I should be terrified. But when I sing, it’s like breathing underwater. Sound becomes weightless, and everything else fades into oblivion. The stage is the only place I’m not shy. The only place I’m not afraid to exist.
So I’ll sing tonight. I’ll make them feel every ounce of everything I’ve lived through. And afterward, I’ll decide whether to go to California or New York.
The past.
Or the future.
But even as I tell myself I’ve moved on, my heart whispers the truth I hate most. Wherever he is, Alexei Balshov still owns the part of me I can’t seem to take back.
Soon, it's time for the recital. The auditorium hums with excitement and anticipation. My heart won’t stop pounding. I tell myself it’s just nerves, the same pre-performance jitters I get every time before going on stage, but there’s a restlessness under my skin that feels different.
I follow my class into the aisle, the heels of my shoes clicking in rhythm with the music. The lights are bright, the crowd a blur of faces. When I step onto the stage, the microphone gleams beneath the spotlight like it’s daring me to falter.
Then the music starts.
I open my mouth, and the first note spills out, a bit shakily, but then it gets stronger, gradually filling the open space. I closemy eyes and let the lyrics vibrate through me, bleeding out everything I’ve kept locked away these past months.
Usually, I lose myself completely when I sing. But not tonight. Tonight, something’s off. I can feel it… It’s a pull, like static under my skin. A weight. Someone's watching me. Intensely.
It feels so familiar yet so strange.
I keep my eyes closed, not daring to look.
By the time the song ends, my pulse is thundering in my ears. The applause is loud, but it sounds far away. I smile, bow, and thank them like I’m supposed to, but my body feels detached, my chest too tight to breathe properly.
