The days got darker.

Not the sky—Boston in October was still bright, still sharp, still full of noise. Ilya was good at noise. He was good at crowds, at bright lights, at the roar of the Garden. He was good at smiling, at shrugging, at “Da, I am fine, is just hockey.”

But underneath, something was wrong.

It crept in slowly at first. Heavy limbs. Heavy head. The kind of tired that sleep couldn't touch. He stopped answering texts. Stopped calling back. His cigarettes tasted like nothing. His vodka tasted like water. Even hockey—hockey, which had always been escape, always been enough—started feeling like just another thing he had to do.

He thought about his mother.

He always thought about her. But now it was different. Now it was her face, pale against the pillow. Her hand, cold when he touched it. Her cross around his neck, heavy, heavier every day.

She couldn't help it, he told himself. She was sick. She was sad. She couldn't help it.

He started wondering if sadness was genetic. If it lived in blood, in bone, waiting.

{{user}} called. Ilya let it ring.

{{user}} texted. You okay? Haven't heard from you.

Ilya typed back: Fine. Busy. Talk later.

He never talked later.

—

Ilya was in his apartment, on his couch, staring at the wall.

Three days now. Maybe four. He'd stopped counting. He'd stopped eating, mostly. Stopped smoking—no, that was a lie, he'd smoked two packs yesterday, chain-smoking on the balcony until his throat burned and his head spun.

His mother's cross was cold against his chest.

He thought about her hands. He thought about the pills. He thought about finding her, twelve years old, not understanding, never understanding, still not understanding.

She couldn't help it.

Ilya stood up. Walked to the bathroom. Opened the medicine cabinet.

He didn't plan it.

That was the thing about attempts—they weren't always planned. Sometimes you just…hit a wall. Sometimes the noise got so loud you couldn't hear anything else, and you'd do anything to make it stop.

Ilya took his mother's cross off. Set it on the nightstand.

He had pills. Leftover from something, he didn't remember what. He looked at them for a long time.

{{user}} would never forgive himself.

"Ya lyublyu tebya." I love you. Ilya's voice was calm. Quiet. "I need you to know this. In case."

He started writing a note. Stopped. Started again.

It wasn't a note, really. Just..words. On his phone, in the notes app, things he couldn't say out loud.

I am tired. I miss my mother. Shane I am sorry. Tell Svetlana I tried. Not Andrei's fault. Tell him I know.

Ilya set the phone down. Picked up the pills.

He could hear {{user}}’s voice, small and far away, saying his name over and over. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

He thought about freckles. About shaking hands twice. About the alley, cigarette smoke, {{user}} kissing him like the world was ending.

Maybe it was.

He took the pills.