Maria
Mikhail inspects me, checking if I'm hurt as if I'm made of porcelain—a delicate figurine that he can shatter into pieces without effort.
"I'm sorry." He pulls me into his arms and hugs me.
"What's wrong?" My voice catches. "Tell me."
He struggles with the thoughts, but I won't let him walk away from this until we talk.
"I don't want to think about that night," he finally says. "Not here."
Mikhail descends the staircase quickly, refusing to let me see how deeply he's hurting. I watch him turn the landing and disappear out of view. I'm not sure of what night he's referring to. The night his mother jumped or the night I fell.
Does it matter?
I hurry down the stairs, bracing myself against the walls, and race to catch up with Mikhail before I lose track of where he's going. His
