“Stop.” Dima’s voice is gentle. For him. “You’re not pathetic.”
“I feel pathetic.”
“Feeling something doesn’t make it true.”
I look up at him. His face is serious. Steady. The way it always is.
“You want to know what makes you not pathetic?” he asks.
“What?”
“You’re still here. Still functioning. Still taking care of yourself and the baby even though you’re terrified.” He crosses his arms. “That’s not pathetic. That’s strong.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“You never do when you’re being it.”
The words echo what Jasper said yesterday. About strength not announcing itself.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe I am stronger than I think.
Or maybe I’m just too stubborn to give up.
“I need to do something,” I say. “Something that’s mine. Something that isn’t about him or waiting or surviving.”
Lev perks up. “Like what?”
I think about Jasper’s words yesterday in the park.
“When’s the last time you did something just for you?”
Baking. I used to bake.
I used to spend entire Sundays in my tiny apartment kitchen, flour everywhere, music playing, just… creating. Making something with my hands. Something warm and sweet and good.
When did I stop?
When did survival become more important than living?
“I want to bake,” I say.
Both of them stare at me.
“Like… cookies?” Lev asks.
“Like everything.” I push away from the counter. “Cookies. Bread. Cinnamon rolls. Whatever I want. Because that’s what I used to do before all this. Before Anton, before the bank, before I became someone who only knows how to be scared.”
Dima nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“You want to bake. So bake.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He finishes his coffee. Sets the cup in the sink. “You need supplies?”
