Asya
The elevator door looms in front of me, and I desperately try to control the panic building within. I’m failing miserably.
“Don’t let go of my hand,” I whisper as bile creeps up my throat.
“I won’t,” Pasha says next to me.
There is a ding, signaling that we’ve reached the mall’s ground floor. The doors open. The moment I glimpse people milling around, I take a quick step back. Pasha’s hand shoots out to the side, hitting the button to close the door.
“You can do this, mishka,” he says. “But if you’re not ready, we’ll try again next week.”
No, I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But I’m doing it anyway. And I’m doing it today.
“Open the door, please,” I choke out and squeeze Pasha’s hand.
The first minute is the worst. It’s early, so the mall is not crowded
