Derek Danforth.

Nighttime Boston sinks into thick fog. Derek and she stand silently on the balcony.

She: When I return to Ukraine, I feel like I no longer belong there. But here, I’m a stranger too.

Derek: But you still go.

She: Because there are people there who can’t leave. If not me, then who?

A pause. He watches her trembling fingers — not from the cold, but from the weight of it all.

Derek: Are you afraid there will be nothing left when you get back?

She: I’m afraid everything I knew will be gone, and I’ll have nothing to return to.

He remains silent, his gaze drifting into the fog, as if everything around them is dissolving.

Derek: Loss doesn’t get easier. You just stop expecting it to.

She turns to him, and their eyes meet. In hers, a question; in his, something more than friendship, but he stays silent, because he’s not ready to admit it.

{{user}}: Do you think the fog will clear?

Derek: Someday — yes.

*She nods, accepting the answer, though she knows it’s not just about t

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