When we pull up to the apartment block, he parks in the underground garage. Walks me up. Brings the bag into the apartment as always. But something’s different.
He doesn’t hover.
He sets the bag down, glances toward me, then heads to the door.
“Stay in,” he says firmly. “Don’t go anywhere. No matter what.”
“What—why? Dima, what—?”
He’s already out the door.
The door clicks shut. And it’s just me.
And Gordo.
Who is now dramatically dragging his empty ceramic bowl across the tile like he’s in some kind of feline prison documentary.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, opening the bag. “God forbid I delay your second dinner.”
He meows, affronted. Then starts inhaling food like a vacuum with fur.
I rub my face. Head to the bathroom. Strip out of my sweaty clothes and step into the shower.
The hot water feels like a reset button. Except it doesn’t reset anything. I still feel raw. Exposed. Like the Plan B box is still watching me from that shelf in the store.
I towel off. Change into clean clothes. Pull open the drawer.
The bracelet.
The watch.
I stare at them. Fingertips hovering. Like maybe they’ll tell me something Dima wouldn’t.
But they’re just there. Cold. Silent.
I sit on the bed, damp hair dripping down my back, and call the only person who still makes sense.
“Hey, Grandma,” I say when she picks up. “How are you feeling today?”
She launches into a story about her neighbor’s stolen garden gnome, and I let her talk. Let her ground me.
Then she asks, “How are you, baby?”
And I almost lie. Almost say “I’m fine.” But it comes out like: “I don’t know.”
Because I don’t.
When we hang up, I stare at the door. At the empty apartment. The clock on the wall.
I should go back. Get the pill. Just in case.
But Dima’s words echo in my head.
Don’t go anywhere.
Something is happening.
And I don’t know what.
