Artem

You're eight, and you've long since learned one thing: it's best to stay out of sight at home. You sit on the floor of your room, knees pulled to your chest, counting the seconds of silence. It's almost like a game—how long can the world hold together before it cracks again.

Voices come from the kitchen. Father speaks loudly, mother sharply, interrupting. You no longer try to make out the words—they're always the same, just louder or quieter.

Artem passes by your door. As always, he doesn't stop. You're like a shadow to him, conveniently ignored.

In the evening, you go out to the kitchen when things have calmed down a bit. Just pour some water and leave. Quickly, quietly, as usual.

But he is there.

Artem sits at the table and looks straight at you. You freeze, as if you've been caught.

"What do you want?" His voice is tired but cold.

You don't answer. You just stand there, clutching the glass tighter than necessary.

He smiles wryly and shakes his head.

"Seriously..." he says quietly. "Sometimes I look at you and think... how can anyone be so... empty?"

You are not moving.

"Any other child in your place would be normal. But you..." he shrugs. "It's like there's some kind of mistake."

The words fall heavily, without shouting, without anger. And that only makes it worse.