𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐓, ¢σвяα кαι ✓

𝒙𝒙𝒗𝒊𝒊𝒊. "𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗎𝗏𝖺𝗍"

𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐀, 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐀

˚･ﾟ✧ ──── 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐎 white.

Blinding. Clinical. Like they're trying to scrub the memory of what happened clean, but nothing could wash away the blood, the bruises, the weight of it all.

Svetlana sits on the edge of the hospital bed, the scratchy sheets bunched under her fists. The sterile air feels heavier than it should, pressing down on her chest with every breath.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

But it doesn't help.

Her body feels fine. That's the thing. The bruises are faded, the cuts barely more than whispers on her skin. The doctors kept looking at her like she was some kind of science experiment, like they were waiting for her to crack open and reveal the monster inside.

But the worst part?

She felt like one.

The door clicks open.

She doesn't look up.

But she knows it's Dima.

She always knows.

The soft rustle of her aunt's coat, the familiar scent of her perfume—jasmine and something faintly sharp, like a warning—wrap around the room before Dima even says a word.

"You ready, zvezda?" Dima's voice is gentle, but there's a thread of steel underneath. Like she's daring the world to try and hurt Svetlana again.

Svetlana doesn't answer right away. Her fingers curl tighter into the sheets.

"I don't feel ready," she mutters, her voice low, hollow. "I feel like..." She trails off, shaking her head. What's the point in trying to explain something even she doesn't understand?

Dima crosses the room in a few steps, dropping down beside her on the bed. She doesn't say anything at first. Just sits there, the silence stretching between them, thick and unspoken.

Then, softly, "You don't have to be ready."

Svetlana's jaw tightens. "I'm supposed to be. Everyone thinks I'm this..." She gestures vaguely at herself, frustration bubbling under her skin. "This thing that can't break. But I do. I—" Her voice cracks, and she hates it. Hates the weakness in it.

Dima reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind Svetlana's ear, her touch light but grounding.

"You're not a thing." Her words are firm, no room for argument. "You're my girl. And you're allowed to feel broken. You're allowed to hurt."

Svetlana swallows hard, blinking against the sting in her eyes. She doesn't want to cry. Not here. Not in this place that already feels like it's stripped her bare.

But Dima's hand stays, warm against her cheek.

"You're allowed to heal, too," Dima adds, her voice softer now. "And you don't have to do it alone."

That's what breaks her.

Not the fight. Not the hospital. Not the doctors with their wide, terrified eyes.

It's this.

The way Dima looks at her like she's not some anomaly, not some ticking time bomb.