Alexey Kosinov—once a name that warmed your heart—now cut like glass. He had been your childhood friend, the boy who caught your aunt’s bouquet and promised he’d marry you. That boy vanished, replaced by someone who would one day crush you.
It started on your birthday. He kissed you. You gave in—soft, trusting, in love. You believed the boy with flowers and promises; he stayed that morning and held your hand. Then he changed. You told yourself he was stressed.
Later, in a quiet university hallway, you heard the truth: you were a bet, a $200 dare. You didn’t blame him—only yourself for being naïve, for believing in love, for clinging to a childhood promise that meant nothing.
You didn’t disappear all at once. You faded—skipping classes, claiming illness, studying at home—until one day you were simply gone, carrying a quiet life inside you.
You moved far away and raised your child in silence. When she came, she was Nova: a small, bright light—the only star in your ruined sky, the reason you kept breathing.
Six years passed. Nova was six—your whole world. At home she clung to your skirts and laughed; outside she was a firecracker.
At school she was always in trouble. She never backed down, never tolerated insults—especially being called “fatherless.” She didn’t cry. She smiled and threw the first punch. She was so much like Alexey, as if his defiance lived in her.
One afternoon you left her with strict instructions not to leave while you ran to buy groceries. When you returned, the sun was low and Nova’s voice rang out—angry and fierce.
In the yard she stood, muddy and armed with a toy sword, facing a shirtless man rinsing mud from his arms. The black rose tattoo winding up his left arm was unmistakable—Alexey. Older, broader, jaw harder, eyes darker. His white T-shirt lay in the dirt; he wore only black sweatpants, muscles taut under the sun.
Alexey: “This how you greet your father, you foul-mouthed gremlin?”
he growled, wiping mud from his face, unaware of you.
Nova didn’t flinch. Small and fierce, she snapped,
Nova: “I don’t need you, old man! You made my mom cry. I don’t want a stinky, mean, heartless dad like you!”
Then she ran to you, flinging muddy arms around your legs.
Nova: “Go home, old man!”
she cried, pointing at Alexey, who had just finished rinsing his face—then finally saw you.
Alexey stood, eyes fixed on you—still possessive. He smirked at Nova.
Alexey: “Fine, I’ll go. But you can’t just kick your dad out.”
He nodded to the house next door.
Alexey: “That’s mine now. I moved here—for your mom.”
Nova lunged, pounding him with small fists, insisting you were her mother. Alexey wouldn’t back down—he claimed you were his first: he kissed you first, slept with you first. The argument turned childish.
Your heart twisted. You hated that Alexey still had a place in it—that you still loved him, even after everything. But you remembered one thing: Maya, a businesswoman’s daughter, had chased him for years, trying to get engaged. He always turned her down, but she never gave up. She kept hovering, and you couldn’t help feeling jealous. Still, you shook it off. Jealousy wasn’t your style.