The rain fell in cold, heavy sheets over Moscow’s streets, turning the asphalt to black glass. Inside my Lada, the wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour, and I kept wiping at the fogged windshield with my sleeve, trying to make out the glow of streetlights ahead. In my jacket pocket, folded so many times the paper was thin as skin, was the letter I’d written Elaine—fourteen pages of words I’d never been brave enough to say out loud.

Elaine Nepheleas, it began, in the neat cursive she’d once teased me for practicing too hard. I know you think I’m too much sometimes. Too loud, too present, too… clingy. But you don’t understand—when I’m not near you, the world feels like it’s missing a piece. Like I’m breathing half-air.

I’d met her three years ago, when her family moved from Athens to our neighborhood for her father’s work at the embassy. I’d been leaning against the school wall, trying to look cool while my hands shook with nerves on my first day of tenth grade, when she’d tripped over my backpack and sent her Greek textbooks scattering across the concrete. Even covered in dust and ink, she’d smiled at me—wide and warm, like sunshine breaking through clouds—and said, “I’m Elaine. Sorry about your shoes.”

Since then, I’d been impossible to shake. I waited for her at the bus stop every morning, even when she took the metro with her new friends. I learned to make her favorite spanakopita from a recipe her grandmother sent from Crete, burning my fingers twice before I got it right. I sat through every one of her art exhibitions at school, even when she told me she’d rather I didn’t come. People called me obsessed. Her friends whispered behind her back about the “Russian boy who can’t take a hint.” But I didn’t care—I’d rather be too much than not enough.

Tonight, I’d gotten word she was leaving next week. Going back to Greece to study at the Athens School of Fine Arts. I couldn’t let her go without telling her how I felt. I’d driven across the city in the storm, my hands tight on the wheel, planning to wait outside her apartment until she came home. But when I pulled up to the building, I saw him through the window—Nikolas, a Greek exchange student she’d been spending time with, holding her hand as they looked at something on his phone.

The way she laughed, leaning into his shoulder… it was the way I’d dreamed she’d be with me a thousand times over.

I sat there for a long moment, watching them, before I finally turned the key and pulled away. The roads were slick, and my vision was blurred by tears I refused to let fall. Just one more chance, I thought, pressing harder on the gas. I’ll find her tomorrow. I’ll make her listen.

A horn blared from nowhere. Headlights flooded the windshield—too bright, too fast. I swerved, but the car skidded on the wet road, spinning out of control before slamming into a concrete barrier. The impact sent the letter flying from my pocket, dancing through the shattered window into the rain like a pale white bird.

The last thing I felt was not pain, but a hollow ache in my chest. Elaine, I tried to say, but there was no air left in my lungs. All I could see was her face, smiling in the dark.

Three months later—Elaine’s perspective, brief interlude

The Greek sun was hot on my skin, but I still felt cold. I knelt beside his grave in the small Orthodox cemetery on the edge of Athens, running my fingers over the marble headstone until my skin was raw. KEITH ALEKSANDR VOLKOV—1999-2017. BELOVED SON, FRIEND, AND THE KIND OF LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT.

Lies. All of it was lies, because the world was darker now that he was gone.

I’d spent three years pushing him away. When he’d waited for me at the bus stop, I’d taken the metro instead. When he’d brought me spanakopita, I’d told him I was on a diet. When he’d shown up at my exhibition, I’d pretended not to see him. I’d told him I needed space, that I was still figuring out who I was, that I didn’t have room in my life for someone so… present.

But the truth hit me the moment the police knocked on my door in Moscow. Every time I’d been sad, Keith had been there with his terrible jokes and warm hugs. Every time I’d forgotten my lunch, he’d had extra food in his bag—just in case. Every time I’d struggled with Russian, he’d sat with me for hours, drawing little pictures next to the words to help me remember. Even Nikolas had only asked me out because he’d seen how Keith looked at me, saying, “Anyone who cares that much about you is worth getting to know.”

I’d been so blind. So stupid.

I cried until my eyes were swollen shut, curling up on his old wool coat that still smelled like pine and his father’s cologne. It was the only thing I’d taken from his room after the funeral—his mother had pressed it into my hands, saying, “He always wore this when he was going to see you.”

When sleep finally pulled me under, I whispered a single wish into the fabric: Just let me tell him. Just one more time.

I woke up to the smell of cabbage and old textbooks, the sound of Russian chatter filling the air. For a second, I thought I was dreaming—but then I felt someone kick the back of my chair.

“Kei, stop staring at me and pay attention,” a voice whispered. “Ms. Ivanova is going to send you to the principal again.”

I sat bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. The voice was familiar, but it was coming from me.

I was in my body again. In tenth grade. In Room 204 of Moscow’s Second Gymnasium.

And sitting right beside me was Elaine—fifteen years old, with her hair in a messy braid, a smudge of charcoal on her cheek, and that same warm smile I’d fallen in love with the day we met. I couldn't believe that I am still alive. Is this just a dream? or am I really dead?

I couldn’t breathe. My hands were shaking so hard I knocked my pencil case off the desk, scattering pens across the floor. Elaine leaned over to help me pick them up, her hand brushing against mine for just a second—and the touch sent a jolt through me that I’d felt a thousand times before, but never like this.

“Kei, are you okay?” she asked, her dark eyes wide with concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I’ve seen my own grave, I wanted to say. Instead, I managed a weak smile. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.”

She nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know the feeling. I was up late working on my watercolor project—trying to paint the Parthenon from memory. I keep getting the columns wrong.”

I remembered this day. Exactly this day. Three years ago, I’d watched her pull out her watercolor set during lunch, only to knock it over and spill blue paint all over my new history textbook. I’d laughed it off, but she’d felt so bad she’d spent a week copying every page by hand for me. That was the day I’d realized I was in love with her.

I looked down at my desk. There, tucked in the corner, was the brand-new textbook—still clean, still unmarked. The watercolor set hadn’t been spilled yet.

Lunch came too fast. I followed Elaine to the courtyard like I always did, carrying her bag even though she’d told me she could manage. Her friends—Anastasia and Maria—shot me looks that said why won’t you leave her alone, but I didn’t care. Not then, not now.

We sat under the old pine tree by the gym—the same tree I’d planned to ask her to marry me under in that other life. She pulled out her watercolor set, setting it carefully on the stone bench between us. I watched her hands move, steady and sure, as she mixed blue and white to make the color of the Greek sky.

“Elaine,” I said, my voice coming out louder than I’d intended. “I need to tell you something.”

She looked up, her brush paused over the paper. “What is it, Kei?”

In my other life, I’d chickened out here. Told her I just wanted to know if she needed help with her homework. But this time was different. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a small box wrapped in brown paper—the same box I’d hidden away three years ago, never having the courage to give it to her.

“I got you this,” I said, pushing it across the bench. “For when you first moved here. I just… never gave it to you.”

She unwrapped it carefully, her fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a small silver locket shaped like an olive branch—Greek design, but I’d had it made in Moscow by a jeweler my grandmother knew. When she opened it, there was a tiny drawing inside: us, sitting under this very tree.

“Kei,” she whispered, touching the locket with her fingertips. “When did you…?”

“I drew it the summer before you came,” I said, my heart racing. “I knew your family was moving here from Greece, and I wanted to make something that would make you feel at home. And Elaine—I’ve liked you since the day you tripped over my backpack. I like you more than just a friend. I think I love you.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and bright. She looked from the locket to my face, her cheeks turning pink. In my other life, she’d smiled sadly and said we’re better as friends. But now, she reached across the bench and took my hand.

“Kei, I…” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been so stupid. I’ve known you care about me—more than anyone else ever has. But I was scared. Scared that if we changed things, I’d lose you. Scared that I wasn’t ready for… this.” She squeezed my hand. “But I think I am. I think I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Before I could respond, she knocked over her watercolor set. Blue paint spilled across my textbook, just like it had before—but this time, we both started laughing.