CHAPTER 2: Regret

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?

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***