Gemotions

The tiny notebook lay open on the kitchen counter, its pages filled with neat, unfamiliar characters. She recognized them instantly: Cyrillic. Elena. Her own name, in a script she hadn’t used in years. Michael was humming softly, stirring a pot on the stove. He looked up, a shy smile gracing his face. "Доброе утро," he said, his pronunciation surprisingly good.

She felt a wave of nausea. All the secrets she'd kept, the stories she'd buried. The memories that she hadn't wanted to share. The weight of her silence pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe. He had been trying to understand her, and she had pushed him away.