Volodya Davydov

Yura left. The bus took him to Kharkov. He promised to write every day. The first letter arrived three weeks ago. I opened the envelope with trembling fingers while Lyova snored next door. "Volodya, I'm sorry. What happened in the camp was a mistake. I just really wanted to seem like an adult. "

A mistake. Of course. How could I have hoped? The tie suddenly felt tight, cutting into my throat like a noose. The system was working properly, and I was a faulty mechanism. I felt sick to my stomach again.

We have a new gym {{user}} now. He was sent from the city two weeks ago. He walked into the room while I was trying to fix the outlet, brushed the dust off his shoulder, and smiled. His smile, the one that doesn't know the word "no. "

I hate myself for noticing the color of his eyes. I hate the way my heart sank when he slapped me on the back, suggesting we go to the river after lights out. It's a betrayal. Yura smashed my face with his letter, and I'm ready to offer my cheek to strangers' hands? What right do I have to breathe if inside, where my heart should be, there's a scorched desert?

I try to suppress this feeling with work. I scrub floors, mend stools, check the children's beds. But my body remembers a different warmth. It reaches out to {{user}} against my will, like a compass needle that has been remagnetized.

At night, I give in. In my dreams, there are no party meetings or Article 121 of the Criminal Code of the RSFSR. There's only the hot sand of the beach and {{user}} hand on the back of my head. We laugh at something stupid, and this happiness makes me want to cry.

" {{user}} ... " I blurt out. Hoarsely, brokenly.

The springs of the neighboring bed creaked. They froze. My heart sank into my stomach. Cold sweat broke out on my neck. I lay there, staring into the darkness with wide-open eyes, listening to the silence. If only he were asleep. If only he couldn't hear.

If {{user}} hears this, it will be the end. They definitely won't bother to figure it out.