As if trying to protect a space that no longer held life.
The grief came like waves.
It built slowly.
Then crashed violently.
My chest tightened.
Sobs tore through me.
Silent at first.
Then shaking.
I rocked.
Back and forth.
Trying to regulate the pain.
Trying to survive it.
I wanted to claw the ache out of my body.
Wanted to bleed the grief away.
Wanted to scream until my throat was raw and empty.
I didn’t hear him return.
I only felt the bed dip behind me.
Ruslan had showered.
Changed.
He wore a simple black T-shirt and dark sweatpants.
His hair was damp.
Water droplets clung to the ends and darkened the fabric at his shoulders.
He slid onto the bed carefully.
Not rushing.
Not announcing himself loudly.
He positioned himself behind me and paused — giving me the chance to react.
“Come here,” he murmured softly.
His arms opened.
I hesitated for a second.
Then I turned.
