I sat quietly on the armchair in Vera’s room, my knees drawn up slightly and arms wrapped around them. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting golden stripes across the floorboards. Vera lay on her stomach on the soft rug, crayons scattered all around her, her tongue peeking out as she focused on her drawing. Her little hand moved with surprising precision for a five-year-old, sketching out three stick figures — herself, me, and Aleksandr.
I didn't know when exactly she had wormed her way into my heart, but it had happened. Watching her now, with her blonde curls tied into two messy pigtails and a soft hum spilling from her lips, I felt something stir in my chest. It wasn’t just affection. It was fear too. A quiet, creeping fear that I’d hurt her someday. Because I didn’t belong here.
And one day… I’d leave.