Chapter 28: Storm-Tossed Hearts and a Fragile Truce

The wind screamed across the rooftop, tearing Alex's confession from his lips and scattering it into the storm. "They made me… they made me fall in love with you, Katya." The words barely had time to settle in the air before the rain swallowed them whole. Katya stood frozen, her silver hair slick against her cheeks, rainwater and tears indistinguishable on her pale face. Below them, the city lights blurred into a shimmering, indifferent haze.

Her whisper came in Russian—shaky, shattered, half-choked by emotion. "Любит… меня? После всего, что он слышал? Каждую глупость, каждую слабость… Это… это не может быть правдой. Это какая-то… жестокая шутка?"(Loves… me? After everything he's heard? Every stupid thought, every weakness… This can't be real. Is this some kind of… cruel joke?)

The words hit Alex like a gut punch. A joke? That was what she heard in his confession? He took a cautious step forward, rain pelting his face, every instinct in him screaming to shelter her—from the downpour, from her anguish, from himself.

"It's not a joke," he said softly, firmly, desperate to reach her through the storm. "It's the truest thing I've ever said. Hearing your thoughts, the unfiltered you… it didn't scare me off. It drew me in. Your fire, your mind, your stubbornness, your compassion—it made me fall for you, Katya."

Rain sheeted down in heavy waves now, drenching them both. Lightning lit the clouds in white-hot flashes, thunder rumbling like judgment.

"We can't stay out here," he said, gently reaching for her arm. His touch was tentative, but steady. "Please. Come inside. We can talk… or not. Whatever you need. But not out here."

She flinched, not fully recoiling, more like her body hadn't caught up with her thoughts. After a pause, she let him guide her to the rooftop access. She moved stiffly, as if each step dragged the weight of everything she had just learned.

They slipped into the stairwell, the heavy door groaning shut behind them. The storm outside became muffled, but not forgotten—it thudded against the building like a heart pounding too hard. The stairwell was sterile, cold. But it was shelter.

Katya leaned against the wall, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, shivering. Her soaked clothes clung to her, her silver hair dripping trails onto the steps. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were hollowed by shock, wide with grief and disbelief.

"So every time," she began, voice rasping, "every time I struggled with a paper, and you just happened to give perfect advice… you knew? You knew exactly what I needed because you were listening in?"

Alex swallowed. "Yes. I wanted to help. Watching you frustrated, knowing I might be able to make it easier—it was unbearable not to step in."

"Он хотел помочь…" she whispered, her Russian words dazed, more thought than statement.(He wanted to help…)"Но… это было нечестно. Это было… как будто я была под микроскопом. Каждое моё слово, каждый вздох… он всё анализировал?"(But… it wasn't fair. It was like I was under a microscope. Every word, every sigh… he was analyzing everything?)

"No, Katya," Alex said, his voice cracking slightly. "I wasn't analyzing you. I wasn't dissecting you like a lab sample. I was listening. Learning. Trying to understand you better. And the more I did… the more I admired you. The more I cared."

She looked away, her gaze fixed on a crack running down the concrete wall. "The blini," she murmured. "You brought the raspberry jam. The dark chocolate with sea salt. You heard me wish for them, didn't you?"

He nodded, his throat tight. "Yes."

What once had seemed like small, romantic coincidences—now felt exposed, artificial. Staged.

"Все эти маленькие радости… они были построены на… на его знании моих тайных мыслей," she said, new tears spilling as her voice trembled.(All those little joys… they were built on your knowing my private thoughts.)"Это так… унизительно. И так… больно."(It's so humiliating. And so painful.)

"Katya, please…" Alex stepped closer again, his hands clenched at his sides, fighting the instinct to reach for her. "I never wanted to hurt you. Or manipulate you. I should have told you sooner, I know that. I was afraid. But the happiness I felt in those moments… seeing you smile, surprising you… that was real. My feelings for you are real."

Her gaze snapped to his, blazing now with more than hurt—there was betrayal in it, and confusion, and something deeper: fear. "How do I believe that?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "How do I trust anything now? Our talks about poetry—when you said you understood Tsvetaeva… was that really you, or just you parroting my thoughts back to me? Was anything real? Or were you just performing?"

The accusation—sharp, instinctive, from a place of raw pain—hit harder than anything she could've planned.

"No," he said quickly, voice thick with emotion. "Never a performance. I love poetry. Literature. Those passions, they're mine. Yes, hearing your thoughts gave me insight into what resonated with you. But I shared those things because they mattered to me, too. And I wanted you to see that."

He raked a hand through his wet hair, overwhelmed by the storm inside him now matching the one outside. "Think about it. If I didn't care, if this was all some game… why would I confess now? Why would I risk losing everything just to tell you the truth? I know I've made a mess of it, Katya. I know I hurt you. But I couldn't hide it anymore. I love you. With everything I am. And that love came from knowing the real you—even when you didn't know I was listening."

The stairwell went quiet again. Outside, the rain hammered the roof. Inside, only their breaths filled the space.

Katya stared at him, visibly unraveling. Her face was a canvas of turmoil—hurt, disbelief, the frayed edges of love still peeking through.

"Он любит меня… Он говорит, что любит меня такой, какая я есть… со всеми моими глупыми мыслями и страхами…" she whispered.(He loves me… He says he loves me as I am… with all my silly thoughts and fears…)"Но как… как можно любить кого-то, чьи мысли ты читал, как открытую книгу? Разве это не… не отнимает всю тайну, всю магию?"(But how… how can you love someone whose thoughts you read like an open book? Doesn't that steal the mystery—the magic?)

Alex didn't hesitate. "That was the magic, Katya. Hearing your thoughts—experiencing the unguarded truth of you—it wasn't something I took for granted. It was terrifying and beautiful. And I loved you more because of it. Not despite it."

She lowered her eyes, her fingers twisting in the hem of her sleeve. The edge of resistance in her posture softened, replaced by exhaustion—emotional, mental, maybe even physical.

"I… I don't know what to think, Alexey-kun," she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. "My head is spinning. I don't know what's real anymore. What was shared and what was stolen."

Alex's chest tightened. "I understand. I don't expect you to forgive me. Not now. Maybe not ever." He swallowed hard. "What do you need? Do you want me to go?"

A long silence.

Then, slowly, her gaze met his again. The pain was still there, but it was quieter now. More introspective.

"I think I need time," she said. Her voice was fragile but sure. "Time to figure out what I feel. To make sense of this."

Alex nodded, pain curling through him, but he kept his expression gentle. "Take all the time you need, Katya."

He hesitated. "But please know—what I feel for you… it hasn't changed. And it won't."

For a breathless moment, they just looked at each other.

Then she turned, moving slowly down the steps, each footfall echoing through the stairwell. She didn't say another word.

Alex stood there, drenched and hollow, watching the girl he loved descend into uncertainty. The storm still raged above and below—but now, all he could do was wait. Hope. And hold onto the sliver of connection that remained between them, fragile and rain-soaked, but not yet broken.