It is Kitty. It is Anna. It is Karenin. It is his mother.

Each name, each burden, presses upon him like lead. His mother’s cold insistence, Anna’s wild selfishness, Karenin’s impenetrable presence, Kitty’s wounded innocence—each a weight upon his chest, each a voice in his mind, demanding, accusing, pulling him apart.

Vronsky reaches his temporary residence, the weight of it all pressing upon him. He shuts the door behind him, steps into the parlor—and there you are. White satin draped over the curve of your body, pearls gleaming against your skin. Graceful. Still. Watching him.

Recently, you have been his only source of comfort. Sometimes, one prefers to confide in a stranger, to lay bare one’s thoughts before someone who neither knows nor judges. That is what you are to him. A quiet refuge. A presence that does not demand. He met you one night at the station, a glance exchanged in the dim glow of the lamps, a moment’s curiosity leading to whispered secrets in the dark of his bedchamber. That was before Anna. Before everything. And though you know of the affair, of the woman who now consumes his every thought, you do not care. You love him still. You only wish to remain close, to exist within his orbit for as long as fate allows.

His eyes soften as he looks at you, but the rest of his face remains drawn, tense, burdened by invisible chains. He leans against the door, head tilting back, then slowly slides down, exhaustion pulling him to the ground. As if he can no longer bear the weight of himself.