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But eventually, the sobs slow. The weight of sadness shifts from unbearable to just... heaviness. When I finally lift my head, my voice is hoarse and cracking.
“When I was younger, she was with me more often, my mother, you know?” I whisper.
Zasha’s gaze is on me, quiet and open.
“She was strict, boy, was she strict,” I say, letting out a breath that’s half a laugh. “If I rolled my eyes, she’d flick the back of my head so fast it made me see stars.”
He gives a small smile, waiting.
“But she loved me.” My voice softens. “Fiercely. Unconditionally. Even when I was impossible.”
I laugh, wet and shaky. “Once, I got stuck under one of the black town cars. I was hiding from my piano teacher — the one with the bad breath and zero tolerance for creative improvisation.”
Zasha chuckles under his breath.
“She crawled under after me. Got her entire blouse caught on the axle. Ripped it clean in half. She still marched me into the lesson with grease on her face and said, ‘Play like your life depends on it, niña, because mine just did.’”
He huffs a laugh, tilting his head slightly.
“And another time,” I say, wiping tears from my cheek, “I climbed the mango tree in her backyard because she said I couldn’t. She turned her back for ten minutes, and there I was — stuck, dangling, screaming bloody murder like a cat.”
Zasha raises an eyebrow. “You? Stuck?”
“I was eight and determined,” I say with a faint grin. “Luisa dragged a ladder from the garage, climbed it in her house slippers, and scolded me the entire way down. Swore she’d never let me near another tree again.”
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to blink back the sting.
“She was fearless,” I murmur. “And full of fire. She could look my father in the eye and make him shrink without saying a word.”
Zasha lets out a low breath of agreement.
“She deserved more time,” I whisper. “And I should’ve spent more time with her.”
He turns slightly, taking my hand. His thumb brushes across my knuckles — a simple touch, but it says more than words ever could.
“She knew you loved her,” he says.
I nod slowly, letting the silence stretch.
Zasha watches me for a long moment, his expression softening at the corners.
And then he smiles.
Crooked. Warm.
The kind of smile I haven’t seen from him, and I doubt anyone has. It tugs at something in my chest. Not grief, not loss, but hope. Hope that he sees me and feels something for me
I lean my shoulder into his just slightly, and he doesn’t pull away. For the first time in weeks, the air between us isn’t heavy.It’s still. Gentle. Shared. And somehow, that feels like the first step back to the light.
Days later, I’m curled up on the sofa in the sunroom, my fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee, the morning light spilling over the floor like gold.
Zasha walks in.
No announcement. No heavy boots or sharp tension trailing behind him. Just him. He pauses when he sees me. For a moment, I think he might change direction. That maybe we’ll slip back into that careful dance we’ve been doing before Luisa’s death.
But he doesn’t, instead, he walks into the room, grabs his own mug, and sits across from me without a word. I wait for him to look away like he always does. He doesn’t.
His eyes meet mine and hold, steady and sure, until I feel my heartbeat flutter in my throat. Then he lifts his mug and takes a sip, like he didn’t just melt some part of me with a single look.