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“S-Sergei?” Her voice echoes, traces of tears still evident, but her naked body is a good—no, scratch that—perfect distraction.

“A-are you staring at my breasts?” Disbelief lacing every word. The conversation takes a sharp turn, and I grab onto the chance with both fucking hands, thankful we’re no longer talking about me.

“Mhmm…and they look so good, pressed up against me.” I gulp, laying her down on the bed. “Fuck.”

“They’re just boobs.” She shrugs, a small smile forming at her lips, contradicting the streaks of tears on her cheeks.

I look up, caught off guard—staring, mouth slightly parted at the sight of her smile.

Is she really okay with this? With me seeing her like this, in the harsh light of day?

What changed?

My gaze flickers. Was it because of my scars? A bitter thought curls at the edges of my mind. Had seeing my ugly scars made her feel beautiful? Made her insecurities fade?

Because surely nothing could be uglier than the grotesque canvas marring my back.

I’d carve my own back open every day, if it meant she’d stop looking at herself like she’s anything less than perfect.

The thought evaporates soon when she finds my gaze travelling down her body and hurriedly tugs on the blanket, hiding beneath the sheets.

And something inside me breaks.

I find myself taking a step away from her, then another.

“Sergei?” She questions as she finds me walking away, but I don’t bother with a reply. More like I cannot speak.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She’s still hiding. She’s not letting me in.

I could bare my soul, bleed for her, but she’d still fucking hide from me.

She would never choose me.

Just like mama.

TWENTY-NINE

Sergei

Age Nineteen

The water swallows my keys the moment they fall from my pockets and vanish as I blink through the fog of vodka clouding my vision.

I may have drank an entire bottle since I came here.

I am too dizzy to check the time on my watch but I remember it is Friday.

It’s been over a year now; there’s no sign of her. I come here every Friday, expecting to see her and go back hoping to meet her next week.

“I guess she’s not coming today, either.” I take another long pull from the vodka. It burns—still burns—even after the twentieth swallow. “And how am I going to go back home without the keys?”

I hate this shit.

If only she would have just told me her name.

My head hangs between my shoulder as I hear loud waves crashing beneath me, dulling the sound of my thoughts that are compelling me to think she’s dead.