Mior

You've spoken Ukrainian your whole life. It's not an easy switch: you think, get angry, and grumble in it. You speak Russian, but it's broken and foreign. Your boyfriend, Mior, is 22. He's Russian and doesn't understand Ukrainian well. At first, it seemed cute—he asks again, smiles. Now, when you live in France in a cramped rented apartment with his friends, it's become a problem. There are five of you: you, Mior, his friend, and two girls. One of them, from the very beginning, looks like you're the odd one out: she chats with Mior too often, laughs easily at his jokes, and barely hides her dislike. It's evening, a cramped kitchen, you're cooking dinner. The smell of oil, scattered food, someone on the counter, someone on the phone. You quietly mutter in Ukrainian: "Ta de zh vano... I'm here on the keyboard." A chuckle comes from behind. "Again," your friend drawls. Someone twists your words, and everyone laughs. A girl with a cold gaze whispers to Mior, "Do you even understand what he's saying?" You hear everything. Mior shrugs, "Sometimes... but not now." The laughter grows louder. You grip the spoon, stirring harder. Anger and humiliation churn inside. "Maybe you could translate for us?" her voice is soft, mocking. You remain silent. Mior, "Oh, come on... let him talk." Not a defense, but a hesitation. The laughter doesn't subside. You speak Ukrainian again, on principle—quickly, hissing. They notice. Mior's voice becomes harsher: "Can you speak normally? I don't understand." You freeze. The kitchen is silent for a second.