flashback

He looked away, back to Anya, his focus snapping back to Anya as if she was a smudge on the window he’d already wiped clean.

He leaned in closer, brushing a strand of hair from Anya's forehead with a gesture so intimate it felt like a violation to witness.

"Good,"

he said, his voice carrying clearly to where she stood, frozen.

It was cold, dismissive, a door slamming shut.

"Finally everything is back how it's supposed to be. You can start preparing for the divorce now."

The words didn't hurt.

They were too expected to hurt.

They were simply the final, official stamp on a truth she’d been living with for five years.

They were the confirmation of her expiration date.

She saw her parents glance toward the door.

For a wild, foolish moment, a spark of hope ignited in the frozen wasteland inside her.

Maybe they would see her.

Maybe they would wave her in, include her in this family moment.

But their smiles, which had been so bright, tightened slightly.

Her mother gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head before turning her back to the door, blocking her view.

Her father didn’t even meet her eyes.

She was standing there, but she had already vanished.

*I faded… behind the background… like a shadow or even something more invisible.*

The thought was calm, analytical.

A statement of fact.

This wasn't new.

When she had the flu, they set up a cot in her room.

When she broke her arm, they took turns reading to her all night.

She was the sturdy one.

The reliable one.

The one who didn't need coddling.

The one who could be asked to make the ultimate sacrifice for the family's reputation without complaint.

*Why did it still hurt? Hadn't I built up a tolerance by now? A callus over my soul?*

Kyivan was speaking again, his voice dropping to a low, gentle murmur meant only for Anya.

"I'll sort everything out. Soon we'll be able to go home, just like we planned."

*Home.*

The word was a knife twisted in a wound she didn't know could still bleed.

*Her* home.

*Their* home.

The house she had lived in for years, trying to make it her, was never anything but a borrowed set waiting for the real star to arrive at stage.

She wanted to stay.

She wanted to rush to her sister’s bedside, to hold her hand, to see for herself that the vibrant, beloved twin she'd missed so desperately was really back.

But her feet were already moving, carrying her backward down the hall as if on autopilot.

They felt heavy, weighted down with a year’s worth of unspoken words and unmet glances.

Each step was an effort, as if she was walking through deep water.

*Just like me, too tired to live but still living.*

She didn't stop until she was outside, the automatic doors sighing shut behind her, cutting off the warm, antiseptic-scented air.

The evening was cool, the sky a bruised purple.

And then the first drop of rain hit her cheek.

Then another.

Within seconds, it was a steady, soaking drizzle.

She didn't seek shelter.

She just stood there for a moment, letting the rain soak through her thin sweater, hoping it would wash away the sting of tears she refused to let fall.

*Why me, God?*

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