To my relief, the next morning Yulia wakes up with no signs of a relapse. I’m in the kitchen making breakfast when she walks in, already dressed in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, her hair brushed and her eyes bright and alert.
“Hi,” she says softly, stopping in the doorway. A delicate flush colors her cheeks as she looks at me. “Are you home again today?”
“Just for a bit,” I say, smiling at her. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.” She gives me a tentative smile in return. “Just a little hungry.”
“Good. The omelet’s almost ready.”
“Do you want some help?” she asks, coming up to the stove. “I can—”
“Thank you, but I got it.” I wave her away. “If you want, make us both some tea, and I’ll have this on the table in no time.”
Yulia does as I suggest, and five minutes later, we’re sitting
