I watched as Irina struggled to compose herself. She stayed silent for several seconds after she finished stacking the groceries in the fridge. Her hands shook a little, a tremble so subtle that maybe only I could notice. Finally, she turned around and faced me, her dark eyes meeting mine with a kind of vulnerability I hadn’t seen in years.
“We need to talk,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
I placed my half-full glass of blueberry juice on the table, feeling the coolness of the condensation on my fingertips, and nodded silently. A part of me was tempted to walk away, to protect the fragile peace I had built inside myself. But something rooted me to my seat.
Irina pulled out a chair and sat across from me, keeping her gaze fixed on her hands, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of h
