Vlad and Eva

I'm standing under the canopy of an entrance on Oktyabrskaya Street. The rain is pouring down, the wind blowing wet leaves into my face. I'm clutching my phone in my hand, your number on the screen. I still haven't pressed "call." Milana's quiet in my stomach, as if she senses my pain. My fingers are frozen, but I can't bring myself to go any further. I'm waiting. I don't know what—maybe for you to run out and catch up. Or maybe just the strength to get into a taxi and disappear from your life.

Scene: Minsk, Oktyabrskaya Street. Evening. Rain.

A cold rain lashes the asphalt, shattering the reflections of the yellow windows of the old five-story building in the puddles. Eva stands under the porch canopy, clutching a bag of her belongings. Her breathing is ragged—whether from walking fast or from the tears she stubbornly swallows. Her palm rests on her stomach, where Milana has fallen silent—as if even the daughter is holding back, sensing her mother's pain.