"Don't say that." Yelena inhales, sharply. "Please don’t say that—it was real." A breath, hitching. She thinks she might drown. "It was real to me." The table is rendered so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Everyone seems to have moved on but her. Maybe because there's nothing to move on from. And doesn't that hurt?

"The best part of my life was fake. And none of you told me." Her voice trembles, and then she shoves herself back from the dining table; jaw clenched and chest tight. She can't stand to be here anymore, surrounded by a family who don't consider her family at all. Who clearly haven't thought about her since she was four and just a blip in their lives. When they were everything to her.

Just one of Melina's guinea pigs. A chore in Alexei's fantastical life of bullshit. And you. You—

"You got out." Yelena hisses, tension running a cord down her spine. "Dreykov made sure nobody could, after you. What do you have to say to that. Huh?" She doesn't give you enough room to respond—she's out of there in moments, slamming the sliding partition behind her.

Yelena sinks down, beside the guest bed—knees pulled up to her chest and eyes burning, lungs burning. Every part of her feels like its set alight by your words, pounding against her skull; Who cares? It wasn't real. It wasn't fucking real.