"Why?" She's staring at the bag like she can't quite believe it's real. "I didn't ask for?—"
"I know." I shift on my feet. "But I remembered you talking about photography. About wanting to take classes."
She goes very still. "When did I talk about that?"
"At dinner. About two years ago. You and Ilya were at that Italian place downtown, and you mentioned wanting to learn."
"You were there?"
“I was at the bar. Undercover security for the night. I was probably on a lot of dates where you didn’t notice me.”
She's staring at me now, and I can see her mind working. Putting pieces together. "What else do you remember?" she asks quietly.
"Everything." The admission feels dangerous, like I'm giving her ammunition. But I can't seem to stop. "I remember you ordered the carbonara. That you were wearing a light blue silk dress. It had these little spaghetti straps, and a slit up the side."
"Kazimir—"
"I remember you told Ilya you wanted to visit Greece. That your favorite color is blue. That you hate carrots but you'll eat them if someone else cooked them because you don’t like sending food back or refusing something that someone else cooked.”
She's not saying anything now. She’s just watching me with those wide eyes, speechless.
"I remember all of it," I tell her, my voice low and quiet. "Every conversation I overheard. Every time I saw you. I remember everything about you, Svetlana."
A long silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. She stares at me as if she’s never seen me before.
"Why?" she finally asks. "Why would you remember all that?"
Because I was obsessed with you. Because I couldn't stop watching you. Because even then, when you belonged to someone else, I wanted you.
But I can't say that.
"Because you were worth remembering," I say instead.
She bites her lip, and her eyes glisten. "I don't understand you."
I let out a slow breath. "I know."
"You're supposed to be the bad guy. You're supposed to be just like all the others."
I don’t know what to say to that. I just stand there, feeling as if everything I could think of to say has gone out of my head. She looks so beautiful, so lost, and I want so badly to be the one to comfort her, to make up for everything in the past, to give her a future that makes her feel hopeful again.
“I need some time.” She looks at the bags next to me. “I’m going to go through all of that. Thank you for bringing them."
"You're welcome."
I start to turn to go, and I hear her speak again.
"Kazimir?"
I turn slightly. "Yeah?"
"I'm glad you remembered." Her voice is soft. Almost shy. "About the photography. I'm glad someone did."
I nod, once again at a loss for words. It feels like no one has ever seen her like I do. And it occurs to me that I was right to go with my instinct to bring all that here.
That might be what proves to her that I’m different… that I’mtryingto be different.
That I, at least, see her for who she really is.
